


The Things We Do

by gigantic



Category: Bandom
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-05
Updated: 2008-01-05
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/pseuds/gigantic
Summary: This is too good to let Pete brush it off.





	The Things We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to teaspoon for indulging me. I also owe major thank yous to jadziadrgnrdr and jamjar for their encouragement and wise input.

The second and third days home after a tour are always more difficult for Joe to wrap his head around than the first night. Initially, he's just glad to see his bed again. Night one back in Chicago means being more comfortable than any hotel (and especially any bunk) could ever make him. He usually sleeps hard and for much longer than he needs, just relishing the space to stretch out and the familiarity of his bedroom.

The second night home is equally welcome but also strange. After a couple months away, his limbs tend to get used to the lull of the road underneath him or the way the scenery always changes. Whenever he wakes up on tour, it's like he's always rolling out of bed to find someplace different. At home, every time Joe wakes and heads outside, it's still Chicago. Still the same front area when he opens his door. It's good and a readjustment all at the same time, Joe unable to get rid of the restless feeling halfway through a second afternoon is his own kitchen, his dog following at his heels.

On the third day, Pete calls to ask Joe if an old Megadeth hoodie with a hole in the neck belongs to him. 

Joe says,"Yeah, I think so, why? Dude, you have my hoodie?"

"I'm cleaning house," Pete says. "You know, out with old and in with, uh. Okay, mostly the 'out with' part." 

"Don't throw out Megadeth, man," Joe says. 

Laughing, Pete says, "If you want it, come save it."

Two hours later Joe books a flight to Los Angeles. He hasn't taken time to really just hang in LA for a while. He can afford to take a few days to invade Pete's space. Besides, Chicago will still be around when he comes back. He has to rescue his belongings.

;;

Pete's turning over a new leaf. He explains this to Joe in the car on the drive from LAX airport back to his place in Hollywood. The explanation comes complete with an accompanying rotation of his wrist. Turning his hand from palm up to palm down, Pete claims that he's trying something new.

"Really, I'm just getting stuff together. I came home and things were kind of a mess," he says, looking past Joe to check his sideview mirror as he gets over to head onto the on-ramp for the freeway.

The traffic heading south is flowing, something that Pete comments on under his breath in between sentences about how cluttered his place is right now. Joe looks ahead and then beyond the road altogether and notices the mountains. That's something that never stops striking him about this city versus Chicago. Los Angeles is all hills and valleys rather than flat lands. Hills, valleys, and pretty intensely pink and orange sunsets, but whenever Joe has ever brought it up around him, Pete has mentioned that that's partly due to the smog.

"So you get off tour and decide to become Mr. Clean?" Joe asks.

"Hey," Pete says, cutting his eyes over to Joe. "That bald dude is the _man_ with a scrub brush. Haters never prosper, Troh."

He smiles, and Joe laughs, running his hands along his thighs. Pete also drives a really big car for a pretty small dude, and they all started out making jokes about overcompensation, but now Joe just thinks about how much gas must go into the thing. It's a nice car though. You can't really go wrong with black Range Rovers and leather seats.

Joe asks, "How long will this little project take us?"

"Oh, you're helping?"

"I might do you a favor and lift a pinky finger or two here and there," Joe says. He moves one hand to the window and taps his fingertips against the glass. "First, I want to secure my hoodie, dude. I can't believe you were making trash threats over the phone."

Pete says, "Relax. I folded it up and put it in my drawer with the keepers."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"I'm not really throwing out every other thing I see," Pete says. "Like, I think Patrick managed to leave at least two pairs of shoes there, and they're in the corner. He'll be at his place in a week or something."

"Yeah, I talked to him yesterday." The freeway bends, and suddenly the sun's glaring across Joe's face. He pulls down the visor and pushes it toward the side.

Pete says, "I just put them in a corner. I _could_ go ahead and drop his stuff at his apartment if I felt like it. Every time we come back, I feel like there's just too much shit in my house though. There are bunch of designs for Clandestine in the living room, too, and then I still have some of Ashlee's stuff."

He shrugs and changes lanes. Aha. The unexpected desire for spring cleaning now makes more sense to Joe. He always feels the exact opposite about his own place when they finish touring. His house feels huge in comparison to hotels and the bus. He's got the luxury of multiple rooms and all of his own things, and that seems like more than enough space whenever he gets home, but Joe thinks he could understand the urge to come back and clean house if every loose end he got to ignore for two months was still there waiting exactly the way he left it.

"Are you just gonna toss all the stuff you don't want out?" Joe asks.

"I don't know," Pete says, and he pulls down his own visor as they exit the freeway, the sun rounding the front of the vehicle. "There's a, uh. What, a Goodwill or something not that far away. I don't know; we'll see. I don't really care right now."

Fair enough. Joe can let it go for now. He reclines his seat and settles for watching people on the sidewalk slide past as they cruise the streets.

He doesn't know what he expects to see when they arrive at Pete's place, but it isn't quite the disaster Pete made it out to be. It isn't much different from the state Joe has found it in every other time he's come to visit Southern California. He tends to stay at Pete's place more often than not, because Pete's got a guest room and a pool, and even if he doesn't come out and say it constantly, he likes to have other people around. They've known each other long enough that they don't have to entertain one another for the entire duration of a trip out, but it's still comfortable. Joe feels at home in Pete's place, so much so that once they're in the house, Pete waves his hand in a completely unhelpful way as he says the open bedroom room is all Joe's for the taking.

"You know what to do," he says, and Joe slings his duffle up over his shoulder as he slides past Pete where he's stopped just in front of the doorway.

"Is the bed already set this time, or do I get the added privilege of making it for myself again?" Joe asks.

Pete shuts the door, saying, "I told you, that was the self-serve version of coming to stay with me. But, no, you got full service this time. Your room is probably the only one without shit all over the floor now."

"Amazing."

"Hell, yeah, it is," Pete says, lifting his chin.

"Am I lucky enough to get a dinner, too, or -- "

Pete laughs, saying, "Dude, I'm hospitable, not a personal servant. I might have some Hot Pockets in the freezer for you. I think."

"Can I hold you to that?" Joe asks.

Pete taps his fingers against his mouth, thinking, and then says, "You know what, let me check. I might've eaten those yesterday."

;;

As minor as the destruction is when Joe first shows on the scene, it does get worse. Pete has really only just begun sorting through the various remnants of people that have been in and out of his home, is the thing. Joe starts helping him pick it all apart, and they make it through two closets in Pete's house the second day that Joe's in town. It could be more, but Pete has an intense collection of pictures and video scattered in different places. They get distracted several times trying to figure out when something was or taken or filmed, because only half of everything they find includes a label.

Every time they come across something that features one of Pete's exes, just the two of them, Pete looks at the shot and then puts it away again. He doesn't throw any of those items out, or even pretend as if he wants to, and as they got more of the stuff organized into one box of media, Joe watches Pete push the container into the closet with his foot and step back so he can close the door.

"When's the last time you talked to Ashlee?" Joe asks, and then feels silly for it. 

"Um." Pete closes the door, hand lingering on the knob. "She left me a message about a party she's having at her house next week. She wants me come hang out."

"Are you going to go?"

Pete gnaws on his lip, shrugging, "Mm. Probably not, but whatever. The invitation is there. I don't know, it's still kind of weird."

"Right."

Although, Joe isn't sure amicable splits ever stop feeling at least somewhat bizarre. Case and point, he and Marie have been taking it easy for the better part of the year, since she decided she wanted to stay in Italy longer. She sends email occasionally, keeping him updated on how she's been and he tries his best to do the same, but it can be frustrating, never having the opportunity to step away from a situation altogether. That's the thing about leaving a relationship on good terms. They have to maintain the camaraderie as much as the relationship itself. It's awkward enough for Joe sometimes without being able to open up a magazine or check in with the television to see what Marie might be up to in glossy detail, so he can't imagine what any of this is like for Pete.

"Eh," Pete says, dismissive. "Oh, I need to take a couple boxes to UPS. Do you want to ride with me?"

"Wait. Huh?" Joe's appalled. He points an accusatory finger at Pete. "Are you mailing somebody's stuff back? Why didn't I get that option?"

Pete laughs, stepping toward the corner of the room to grab his shoes and stuff his feet into them without untying the knots already done. "You didn't tell me to mail your thing back to you, dude. Not my fault."

"I didn't know that was even an option!"

"You didn't have to. It was practically your idea to fly here, come on," Pete says, and he punches Joe in the arm. The hit is more companionable than anything, given away by the smile that pulls across Pete's mouth. "Admit it, you just wanted to spend time with me."

"Oh, yeah. Two months cramped in a tour bus with you couldn't satisfy me," Joe says.

Pete creeps closer, dropping his voice lower, comically seductive. "It's okay if you want to rekindle that flame."

"Get away from me," Joe says, pushing Pete back and shaking his head at the burst of laughter that rings from him. "I came to see LA."

He hasn't been in town since... since they played the show here. That was at least three weeks ago. Okay, maybe it isn't as far in the past as it felt, but it counts as a significant amount of time. Joe thinks it could count as long enough to legitimately miss a place, anyway.

"Los Angeles, which also happens to have the added benefit of me," Pete says, pointing to himself with his thumbs as if Joe might now be aware of exactly who 'me' refers to. "Honestly, it's okay if you just like my company, Joe. I'm somewhat irresistible."

"Somewhat, like marginally? On a particularly sunny Thursday afternoon, maybe."

"Yeah, but that still counts." Pete lifts his chin proudly again, and then reaches out to pat Joe's arm. "Hey, dude, come on. Put on your shoes; let's go."

"Alright, alright, calm down," Joe says. 

He grabs his own shoes and sits down on the nearest chair to slip them on and retie them. In the meantime, Pete disappears and when he resurfaces again, he sits down at the desk and uses the small standing mirror there to fix his eyeliner. Joe smirks at him, tugging the tongue of his shoe up before he tighten his laces, and then half watches Pete work. He's in that phase again, wearing the makeup and leaving evidence of its application everywhere. Joe accidentally stepped on and broke at least two pencils over the course of the tour, and he tripped over the cord of Pete's flatiron in their hotel room once too. It's just the name of the game when you're around Pete sometimes, and the funny thing is that Joe remembers when none of that was the case, but even back then there was still peroxide and hair dye. Things change but never as much as some people like to believe.

"All set," Joe says a moment later. He slaps his hands on his his knees to further indicate the finality, but Pete maintains his focus, eyes opened wide as he finishes what he's doing. "Hey, can you do that without a mirror?"

"No, I've tried," Pete says. "I'm an A-plus student when it comes to almost blinding myself though. F-Y-I."

Joe laughs, still watching, and when Pete finally puts down the pencil, he blinks a few times and then looks at Joe. 

"Done?" Joe asks, standing. "You all pretty for your trip to get postage?"

"Hey," Pete says, leading the way to the front door. Joe puts his hands on Pete's shoulders and trails him. "You never know if Mister Right will be the guy asking me if I want to insure my package."

;;

Truthfully, Joe does figure he should take advantage of the sights while he's around. Los Angeles is an acquired taste, and Joe's learned that he can either hate it or treat it like every other city and find what he likes here. He wakes up before Pete, showers, and then tiptoes into Pete's room to ask if he wants to ride out to Malibu to visit some people. Pete slaps sleepily at Joe's hands, protesting, and if Pete's intent on sleeping, then it's best to just let him.

"Can I use your car, then?" Joe whisper-yells, hovering over Pete with his hands planted at either side of his torso. "Dude. Wentz, hey."

" _Yes_ , whatever, go away," Pete mumbles, rolling over in the cage of Joe's arms and shoving his face into his pillow.

"Thanks. No wonder you're irresistible," Joe says, patting Pete's shoulder gratefully. Pete grunts, and Joe scoots off the bed.

"Yeah, you better remember it," Pete says, voice muffled, but Joe hears him and laughs anyway. Pete's got enough energy to be a character even when he's almost passed out.

Joe takes the scenic route instead of the freeway on his drive. He stops off to fill Pete's gas tank, and eventually makes it to the oceanside around eleven in the morning, the sun out and the breeze cool. If there's one thing that LA is always good for, it's at least one or two days of freakishly nice weather during seasons when it should be consistently dreary.

He meets with a few of his friends in the area for an afternoon of beer and lounging. The novelty of living by the water hasn't entirely worn off despite the number of times Joe's been to west coast, so he doesn't need much else but to absorb the surroundings. He sort of wishes he'd made Pete get up and come with him, get that dude out of his house and out of whatever must be going on in his head. Everybody can use a little fresh air to clear the air after tour, a way to ease oneself into the day-to-day aspect of living in the world outside of the bubble of the road.

To make up for it, Joe thinks it could be a good idea to bring the relaxation of a nice day back to Pete. A change from microwaveables, at least, should be a step in the right direction. On his way into the Hollywood area again, Joe stops at the supermarket to buy frozen burgers and hot dogs. They can grill in Pete's backyard and turn it into a regular summertime shindig in the middle of the fall.

Joe's surprisingly exhausted by the time he gets back to the house too, ready for some more hours spent lounging. When he gets back to Pete's home, he's so ready to chill out that he forgoes the niceties and uses his spare key to get into Pete's place without ringing the doorbell a couple times first. Joe is sort relieved that there are no cars in the driveway, none except Pete's SUV now that Joe's brought it back, because it means he can kick off his shoes and fall over himself on Pete's couch without worrying about looking like a slob in front of his personal assistant. Not that she hasn't already seen what Joe looks like when he rolls out of a tour bunk at two in the afternoon anyway.

To his credit, Joe does at least get the front door open and call Pete's name first.

"Wentz!" he says, switching the bags of groceries from one hand to the other so that he can maneuver and get the keys out of the lock while simultaneously shutting the door behind him. "Wentz, I bought burgers and hot dogs. Fire up your grill for a mini barbecue."

Pete doesn't answer. 

That's like him. He's probably in the shower, or napping, or being a douchebag and just not answering. Joe doubts he's left the house without his own car handy, even though it's possible that he called and bribed someone into playing chauffeur. These days Pete tends to prefer having his own exit strategy at all times. He hadn't picked up his cell when Joe tried to call ahead to have him get the grill ready so they could beginning the manly meat-preparing festivities as soon as Joe returned, so Joe figures the nap is the most likely explanation here.

He leaves the groceries on the kitchen counter. Glancing at the living are couches on his way through, Joe notes that Hemingway has claimed a prime cushion for his own afternoon snooze sans a certain five-foot-munchkin owner. He notices that Pete's bedroom door is closed as he approaches. Joe knocks a few times before pushing it open.

"Hey, Pete," he starts, and the hinges creak softly as the door swings. 

"Wait!"

"I bought some stuff for -- "

"Dude, shut that!" Pete calls but not before Joe gets an eyeful. He slams the door, stumbling back and taking in the sight of Pete trying to tug fabric over his knees.

Whoa. It takes Joe a moment to really accept and process what's just happened, hand still clamped around the doorknob, and when it finally hits -- whoa.

He's laughing before he can help it, really. Joe knocks on the door again, calling, "Wentz, what -- _dude_. Pete!"

On the other side of the door, Joe can hear Pete laughing a little hysterically. Joe can't tell if it's a good laughter or -- or, well. He has no idea, but he pushes the door open just enough to warn, and then Pete's saying, "Oh, my fucking -- don't look."

Joe hears a thump and waits five whole seconds before entering regardless of what Pete says, because Joe has to make sure he's really seen what he thinks he's just seen. He stands in the doorway, and Pete's bunching clothing around his thighs, sliding it down around his knees and then kicking his legs free. He's moving quickly, but it doesn't fucking matter, because Joe's mouth is already hanging open, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that -- yep. That's a --

"Is that a skirt?" Joe asks, and Pete squeezes his eyes shut, laughing pathetically. He's lying on the floor in a t-shirt and boxers now, and Joe can't tell if he's mentally reaching or what, but the neckline of the top plunges and rounds out a little much to be a mens' fit. Joe could be seeing things though. He's not sure. He doesn't really think that's the case. "Whose stuff is this?"

"Shut up," Pete says. He rolls over and cradles his face in his palms, speaking toward the carpet. "Shut up, dude, let's not -- I wasn't like. Whatever, what. What did you want?"

"Hey, no, I caught you." This is too good to let Pete brush it off. There's a _skirt_ on the floor and no women present anywhere. "Slinky black is totally a style that works on you."

Pete laughs into his hands, and Joe can tell he's embarrassed. He damn well better be, because Joe hasn't walked in on anything this classic in months. Pete's body curls in, like he's trying to hide. There's really no where to go when a guy's only wearing a ladies' garment and giggling nervously at the floor though. It's not even like it's the first time Joe's seen Pete do something as random as wear a dress around for laughs, but still. Caught in the act. Joe bends down to pat Pete on his shoulder roughly.

"Did you already pick out the shoes?" Joe asks, and Pete groans in pathetic defeat. Joe chuckles and squeezes his shoulder, triumphant. "Don't worry, dude. I don't care if you want to feel, oh, so pretty and witty or whatever."

"Joe," Pete says, dragging out the name, and when he peek up at Joe, his grin plays strange on his face as he breathes in slowly. Joe raises his eyebrows, questioning, but then Pete grins and then shakes his head. "Fuck, you came back early, I was gonna -- "

"Uh huh, I _bet_ you were gonna, " Joe says. He kicks at Pete's thigh with his foot lightly, encouraging him to get up. "Come on, dude. Relocate your man pants and let's go. I want cheeseburgers."

He helps Pete up and even does him the favor of turning around while Pete finds some other bottoms, sparing him the entire walk of shame. Pete bumps Joe's side with his elbow as he comes up alongside him, and then hops out of reach of Joe's immediate retaliation.

As they head from the bedroom to the kitchen, Pete's maintaining a considerable lead and looking over his shoulder to say, "You're trying to barbecue today?"

"I'm going to try and then succeed, sir. I have meat, spices, charcoal with lighter fluid --"

"Oooh. Somebody went out and prepared," Pete says.

Joe catches up to Pete, pushing at his back and making Pete stumble forward into the kitchen, stumbling on the kitchen tile. He says, "Unlike some people too busy playing dress up."

"Hey, fuck you," Pete says, laughing again. "The plan was to get one up on you when you got back."

"But I accidentally got you instead? Excellent," Joe says, grabbing the bag of stuff he bought and moving it all outside. "I wasn't even trying."

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah." Pete shoves his hand at Joe's face, attempting to forcibly stifle him. "Shut up, and get back to the part where you want to be my personal backyard chef."

"Master of the grill is what I prefer, personally," Joe says, grabbing Pete's fingers and holding him at bay.

"Sure, man, whatever gets my lunch char-broiled." Pete slips out of Joe's grip and smacks his thigh playfully.

They take their time with lunch. It's a late lunch, anyway, so far along in the afternoon that if they did finish quickly they'd only have an hour or two to kill before it's time to start thinking about dinner options. Under the circumstances, Joe takes the opportunity to be lazy about the cooking, prepping the grill slowly, throwing on only a couple patties at a time, and listening to almost every word of the topics Pete manages to cover while they're outside.

The guy's a brick wall when he isn't in the mood to speak, but if he is, it doesn't take much to send him off and running. As Joe finishes grilling the meat, Pete's recounting a story about the last time he really had any kind of barbecue. Ashlee fell in the pool somehow, accidentally danced her way too close to the edge while she was singing with the radio. And it had been hilarious if only for the way her makeup ran and made her look like a caricature of woe and embarrassment. Pete had made her hold still for a picture, straight-faced and deceptively serious until they went back to laughing it off. 

He's got the photo somewhere, he says. It might even be on his laptop.

Following a healthy chunk of minutes spent stuffing their bellies, Joe and Pete dedicate time to lounging in the chairs by the pool. Joe dozes off twice. His mistake, really, because Pete flicks pieces of plain hot dog at him to wake him up for both instances, and during the second attack the meat hits his mouth, slightly parted, and Joe coughs for a minute even though he technically isn't choking.

"Suck it up," Pete says, entirely unsympathetic. He throws another piece, and that one pelts Joe on the arm before it falls to the ground with a muted slap.

"Gross," Joe says, frowning. The sun's beginning to set now, and he thinks he can sense the temperature dropping already. "Where's my hoodie? I'm freezing all of a sudden."

Pete stretches his arms over his head in his seat, yawning. "We could go inside."

Being inside, though, sort of automatically switches them in the frame of mind necessary for battle. The set up is them versus the clutter that Pete's determined to pick apart and sort out, and they only stand around aimlessly a few more minutes before they start cleaning where they left off the day before.

If Joe was currently at his own home, the last thing he'd want to be doing post-tour is cleaning up. There's something okay about helping Pete out though. He does like just visiting with Pete, and organizing other people's chaos is always a lot less taxing than seeking to fix his own. Joe hasn't checked his email since he got into town, and he isn't particularly eager to get around to it.

Their relaxed and productive roll persists into the following days, and Joe still feels about the same. They plan to take time out to meet Patrick, but that gets nixed when he call Pete to let him know that he's not coming until the end of the week, actually. He made a promise to his cousin or something. Patrick mentions an oath about buying his cousin a pony and needing to fix that or something. Joe lets brush past him even though the call's on speaker, and after Patrick disconnects, Pete pulls off the ridiculous striped hat he found in his garage that morning and sits cross-legged on the floor.

"Just you and me for at least 48 more hours before we get a break," Pete says. He starts picking at the fabric of the cap, knitted and worn. "Don't go stir crazy and murder me in my sleep, okay? Eventually Patrick will come break up the monotony."

"I wouldn't do that to you," Joe says, shaking his head. He can't believe Pete would think such a thing about him. "I'd at least wait until you were awake."

Pete's shoulder jump a little, the signs of an aborted, private laugh. "A good friend stabs you in the front?"

"And trust me," Joe says. "I'm a good -- no, _great_ friend, so."

Pete chucks the hat at Joe's face and laughs. 

;;

For his fifth morning in Southern California, Joe experiences the pleasure of waking up to Pete making noise elsewhere in the house. He hears the vacuum cleaner going, which Joe could swear Pete's run multiple times since he's been here. He must have the cleanest, most dust-free floors on the west coast by now.

Joe lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and it's after Pete turns off the machine for good that Joe throws his legs over the side of the mattress and gets up. He pads out into the hallway barefoot, and he follows the sound of what he assumes is the television to the front of the house, making a quick detour to the bathroom to empty the full bladder he's picked up during the night.

In the living room, Pete's got all the clothes he wants to get rid of stuffed into bags. Some of his own, some failed Clandestine designs, and some stuff that's definitely Ashlee's. It's all sitting out in the living room, commandeering all the sitting space. Joe moves a couple of the bags over to chill on the couch, picking up the remote from the arm and increasing the volume on the stereo. It's not a television, it's the radio playing.

As soon as the volume punches up, Pete pokes his head out of the kitchen. He's already been moving around this morning but he looks no less freshly woken than Joe feels. He's wearing a similar variation on the most classic of all bedwear: a t-shirt and underwear. He has a glass bowl in one hand and a carton of milk in the other when he comes to survey the sudden change in household acoustics. Joe raises the hand holding the remote in a wave.

"Hey," he says and disappears again.

Joe leans over to poke through the bags and considers one of the skirts. It's another black one. It isn't the same one Pete had on, he doesn't think, but it makes him laugh a little, thinking about catching Pete the other day. 

When Pete surfaces from the kitchen again, he has two bowls of cereal, and he passes one to Joe before he moves a few of the bags of clothes to the floor and then sits down. Joe isn't even sure what they're listening, one of the many examples of original morning FM programming, but Pete doesn't automatically ask to change it either, so Joe leaves it. This is fine. There are awesome guitar licks boxing their ears.

They eat in relative silence. Joe loves Cheerios, which is good because Pete seems to have an overabundance of them in the house. As he finishes off his serving, Joe thanks Pete, and then tips up the bowl to down the remains of sweetened milk.

"You're welcome," Pete says.

Joe leans forward to sit the empty dish on the coffee table and looks down at the bags on the floor, noticing the garments once again. The bag closest to his leg has a denim skirt and a sweater on top. They both look pretty tiny, and Joe reaches out to trace his finger over the seam of a pocket on the skirt.

He asks, "So this is all her stuff?"

It's a random question, he realizes. Pointless. He doesn't think he really cares about the answer either, but he looks up at Pete and waits for him to stop chewing.

Pausing, Pete says, "Yeah, I think. Maybe, I'm not even sure. I haven't taken the time actually go through my closet in a while. Some of it could just be girly shit I own." 

Joe laughs and turns his attention to the clothes again. He's impressed that Pete can squeeze into any of it. He says as much, asking, "And this really fits you? That's crazy, dude."

Pete shrugs. He says yes, scratching his hair idly. No big deal. He finishes his own bowl of cereal, and instead of simply leaning forward to set the dish aside, Pete gets up. He leaves the bowl on the table, but then stays bent to grab the skirt off the top of the bag Joe's poking through. He goes for the skirt Joe's just touched and holds it up, considering it.

"It's like a 28 or something," Pete says, which means little to Joe except that it's way too small for his own body.

He says, "Yeah, I could wear that as a scarf maybe. A neck warmer." 

Pete bends as he opens the skirt up to step into it, pulls it up around his legs and over his underwear. It's a looser fit, a dark wash with frayed edges. Pete zips up the front but doesn't bother with the button, and Joe watches him tug at the ends, trying to situate it.

Joe says, "I think that's as far down as it goes, man. There's just nothing else there." 

It's kind of amazing. Pete's casually standing around barefoot in a denim skirt, and Joe thinks it's amusing, but it's also kind of surreal. From a limited perspective, the whole thing is almost convincing. When Joe doesn't look up too far, just looks at Pete's waist down to his thighs, it sort of fits Pete like it would any random lady on the street. An athletic lady. Pete kind of still has skinny dude legs. Joe figures it must be thanks to all the soccer in his youth.

"So, okay," Pete says, leaving the clothing alone. He keeps looking down around himself, trying to see the full picture as best as possible. "Am I a fucking supermodel or what? Everything you dream of?"

Joe hums thoughtfully. He tilts his head to the side as if considering, and finally says to Pete, "Ehh, well. Your legs are kind of hairy."

He scoots forward in his seat and reaches out to smack Pete's calf for emphasis. Pete steps back, all mock indignant. He complains that he's just not willing to change who he is, and if Joe can't accept him hairy legs and all, then they just aren't meant to be. Joe laughs, still marveling at how Pete really manages to fit into any of this stuff. His fingers are still lightly grazing Pete's leg, hovering absently, and Joe slides his hand up, touching the back of Pete's knee with his palm open, thumb curving around to touch the rounded bone at the front as well.

Pete laughs again, saying, "Yeah, no, you know you get off on it."

Joe pretty much ignores that. Instead, he reiterates that, "I can't believe you and her wore the same size for real." 

He tugs at Pete's leg, inadvertently pulling him closer. Pete shifts nearer and Joe's hand slides upward, onto Pete's thigh. The closer he comes, the uglier this skirt gets, an old acid wash that actually has a tiny hole along the seam of the zipper. After too long, Joe's fingers are pretty much brushing the edge, and a couple of his fingertips accidentally push under the hem. 

"Hey," Pete says but cuts short almost as suddenly as he speaks. 

Joe looks at him. They get caught in this moment, a conversation lull where Joe realizes how high up his hand is creeping and Pete looks down. He catches Joe's eye, and they sit there a second before Pete finally steps back and Joe drops his hand.

Pete says, "Yeah, I've. I've shared shirts and hoodies with most of the people I've dated. Sometimes jeans and stuff."

This is different, Joe thinks. He wants to say that it's really different, but then they wouldn't be having a conversation about sizes. He shrugs instead as Pete takes off the skirt again, working his hips one way and then the other, until finally it just slips down and he can step out of it. He folds it up, tosses it back on top of the bag, and walks away like it's nothing. 

"Yo, you want to go out for lunch later?" he asks Joe. "All I have is a bunch of cereal in the kitchen."

"Cool," Joe says, standing. "And let's fucking do something today. I don't want to clean right now; let's do a movie or something."

"You buying?" Pete asks.

"Why? Are you hard up and didn't tell me?"

Pete laughs, shaking his head. He rubs his eye and then scratches his chin, squinting the way Joe does when he's noticing how much he needs to shave mid-thought. Pete says, "No, I really just want you to treat."

"Well, if that's all," Joe says, throwing his hands out and letting them flop at his sides. "Yeah, whatever."

;;

Joe is a little surprised when he finds himself thinking about it. They see a comedy, and as soon as the film hits one of the first quiet, obligatory sentimental scenes, Joe's distracted by his own head. In the seat next to him, Pete's still letting his laughter fade thanks to a joke from the previous scene. Joe glances at him, and even in the dark, he's the same guy, all guy, but then Joe looks to his right and the girl sitting two seats over doesn't look like Pete or anything, yet Joe randomly wonders if Pete could pass for one in the dark. Dressed up in the right clothes, Pete could get away with it, Joe thinks. He'd have to play his cards right, but it could work, and Joe gets a few minutes of mileage out the possibilities his brain allows before something else on screen makes everyone in the theater laugh. 

After the movie, Joe sees girls on the street, and one walking around in Ugg boots and a short denim skirt makes him think briefly of Pete as well. Joe smirks to himself, but then recalls the ways his fingers had been hidden just underneath the fabric. It was just clothing, and Joe had seen Pete in much less over the years. They were just clothes, and Joe can't understand why he keeps thinking back to the sight, but he can't shake the image of Pete's legs.

It comes up in conversation once or twice, while they're moving the stuff out of the house or shifting things around in the garage. Every time Pete mentions that he's come across more of Ashlee's things, clothes or otherwise, Joe thinks about Pete standing around in the living room, trying things on in front of Joe. He even asks Pete once, if any of his other exes ever let him try on their dresses or something, and Pete says, "Dude, come on, it's me. I try on everything," which is true. From Kangaroo costumes on across the spectrum. If Pete can put it on his body or put it in his mouth (and sometimes even if he shouldn't) he probably will. Joe's seen enough random examples of it during his time knowing Pete.

It's one of the things about him that's always kept him interesting to Joe, and Joe finds himself wondering idly if anyone ever did it deliberately. Pete, who likes playing with eyeliner and sharing everything. Joe wonders if any of his exes ever had him dress up because they wanted him to, because they were just as fascinated by it as Joe.

He gets close to asking Pete that too, accidentally. He doesn't think Pete wouldn't answer, but Joe suddenly doesn't know if he's ready to hear the response. He opens his mouth to say, "Have you ever -- " and then waves it off.

"No, what?" Pete asks. He's got a handful of papers clenched in his fists, a few steps away from the large garbage bag they're using, and Joe's insistent about shaking it off.

"Nothing, nevermind," he says.

Pete eyes, brows raised quizzically. "You sure?"

"Yeah, it was nothing," Joe says, and then turns around to grab some more trash.

;;

Another couple days fly past before Joe comes back from hanging out with Patrick while Pete goes to some commercial event or another. He's big on free stuff at sponsored parties. It's a late afternoon thing, but Pete manages to make it back to the house before Joe does anyway, sending a message to Joe's phone to let him know, so Joe knows he's there. Joe doesn't come back until kind of late. He rings the bell instead of fumbling around for the key.

"Dude, what took you?" Joe asks as Pete opens the door, but then he stops. The words crumble in his mouth as he get a full look at Pete.

Pete laughs, saying, "Sorry, man, I was trying get these fucking boots on."

Yeah, Joe can see how that activity could slow somebody up. What the fuck. Pete stands in front of Joe, decked out in knee-high platform boots and a skirt that clings around his legs, coming about halfway down the thigh and stopping above the knee.

He grins at the look on Joe's face, and Joe literally can't stop staring. Pete's wearing a black peacoat that comes to his waist. There's a scarf around his neck, and he's got a winter hat on his head, hair flat underneath. When he covers his mouth as he laughs, the only thing that stops him from looking like every other girl in the mall is the round, throaty and obnoxious bursts of sound that Joe has come to associate with Pete exclusively. 

Pete's eyes crinkle at the edges, and he steps back saying, "I found the shoes today. I had to, dude. Your face."

All Joe can say is, "Wow, you must be burning up in all that."

That response provokes more of Pete's laughter, but Joe is being pretty for real here. Not even cooler seasons in California warrant that much bundling.

Pete asks, "Are you trying to get me undressed already?" 

Joe laughs as they step into the house. It's funny, yeah, but then Pete is also completely dressed up right now. He looks casual, not dressy like it's an over-the-top joke. It's funny but it's kind of amazing. Joe notices how much longer his legs look with the shoes and the skirt, and then he thinks that that's probably something he never expected to think about in relation to Pete.

Pete says, "I am fucking hot though," and then smiles and adds, "in every sense of the word." 

"Because you definitely aren't modest," Joe says.

He takes off his coat but leaves the scarf, undoing it so that it's only draped around his neck and not knotted. Joe sits down on the couch and kind of just continues to stare, somewhere between amused and awe-struck. He asks if it's comfortable, and Pete stretches his arms out and moves around like he's testing the boundaries. 

"A little breezy." Gesturing to indicate the skirt, he says, "That part's kind of weird, but, eh."

"You're a fucking nut," Joe says, and Pete comes to stand in front of him. This skirt isn't denim. Joe has no idea what the material is, so he asks, reaching out to touch the hem. "Dude, what is this? Is this stretchy?"

He doesn't realize that he's done it again, reached right into Pete's space, fabric between his fingers. He almost pulls back, because. Well. It's somehow more strange like this. He and Pete have invaded each other's space all sort of ways over the years, but Joe's knuckles graze Pete's thigh and he thinks about how, whoa, he's technically got part of his hand up Pete's skirt.

Pete says, "I don't know. How the hell would I know?" 

"Aren't you supposed to be in fashion?" Joe asks, tugging, and Pete steps forward like before, because Joe's craned his head in for a closer look. Joe looks up, and Pete looking down at him with a soft smile on his face, sort of like fading laughter. He doesn't move back or say anything else. "What?"

Pete shakes his head. He shrugs, carefully lifting one shoulder and dropping it just as slowly. He bends his knee just so, pushes into the movement enough that Joe's fingers brush along the skin of Pete's thigh again, soft and quick. Joe pauses.

He stares at his hand, eyes breaking from Pete's, and Joe's knuckles bump up not even an inch. Not even. Pete doesn't move.

Joe's fingers seem to creep higher of their own accord, testing... something. He slowly drags his hand to the side a bit, and Pete inhales, not startled, not anything, really, just breathing. He doesn't know when he makes it up in his mind to do so, but Joe turns his hand over, now with the pads of his fingertips touching Pete's thigh. He inches them upward, dragging his gaze back to Pete's face, and Pete presses his lips together, calm. Waiting and observing. Joe slowly -- cautiously, cautiously -- pushes his hand higher until he can't see it anymore, the fabric bunched around his wrist. He doesn't really know what he's going for, and Pete exhales sharply now, Joe asking, "Have you ever tried -- " and then stopping short again. He really wants to know.

Instead, he waits. Waits for Pete.

Pete edges closer, still looking down. Joe slides his hand around so that he feels the expanse of Pete's thigh, the front of muscle and around to the back. He sits back as Pete gets nearer, until he's settling into the couch. He's not sure if Pete's really going to try to crawl onto his lap until it happens.

Pete stands over one of Joe's knees, their legs technically intertwined, and then he crawls onto the couch, over Joe's thighs. Joe's other hand automatically comes up to brace Pete's other side, and he hesitates a moment, saying, "Hey, is this --" just as Pete says, "You're okay," and then Joe's pushing up Pete's skirt, the fabric folded around his hips.

He pushes it higher and higher, and his hands sweep around the front and the back, grazing Pete's ass just a little and then coming to rest on the side of his thighs. Pete breathes in sharp, panting hard. He presses their foreheads together, and Joe is overwhelmed. He's completely overwhelmed by all of this, pulling his hand away from Pete's skirt and over his sides, urging him closer.

Pete settles into Joe's lap, rocking his hips forward, and when Joe gasps even though the contact isn't really much like this, Joe feels the flash of Pete's smile against his cheek. Two seconds later, Pete slides his mouth left just enough and they're kissing. Pete' has on a skirt and knee-high boots, Joe is feeling him up, and they're kissing in the middle of Pete's living room.

"Have you ever?" Joe starts again. "Have you ever tried this before?"

"Which this?" Pete asks, and Joe thinks he knows until he tries to form the question and realizes he doesn't. 

He doesn't know anything other than the fact that it went from cool to sweltering in here way too fast. The skin on the small of Pete's back is already damp when Joe tucks his hands under Pete's shirt, and Joe doesn't know anything about anything except that he's surprised to realize that this -- he wants more of this. 

"I think I'm just following you," Pete says. He places his hands on Joe's shoulders, pressing his thumbs in over two key points on Joe's collarbone, steady. He ghosts his mouth near Joe's, hovering, and Joe grunts as they connect again, the kiss fierce and consuming.

Pete pants into Joe's mouth, hitching his leg closer. He has nowhere else to go, but he's trying to get there anyway, and Joe scrapes his thumb back and forth over Pete's skin. His hand is hot, trapped between denim and warm thigh. A few days ago -- an hour ago, even, Joe couldn't have imagined himself in this position, Pete sitting on his lap and grinding down slowly, making Joe choke on a breath, bucking up. It's hot and nerve-wracking, and Joe thinks Pete has to feel the way he's shaking a little from it all.

"I can't," Joe says, pushing Pete sideways, not too hard but insistent. "Dude, I can't."

Pete topples sideways onto the couch cushions, and Joe scrambles to his feet. He takes a step back, swallowing, and below him Pete's shifting upright, apologizing.

"Sorry, sorry, are you -- sorry," Pete says, even though it's not his fault. He looks up at Joe, laid out messily. The way his skirt has bunched up is distracting now, because Joe can see his underwear, which should break the bizarre illusion, but it doesn't, not enough. Pete brings his hands up to his mouth, cursing into his palms and gazing at Joe uncertainly, and that doesn't help at all.

"It's not you," Joe says, "It's just."

"Yeah." 

They haven't broken eye contact yet, and Pete lets his knees fall together without bringing his feet into place. It's kind of awkward, the V from his knees to down his shins contrasted by tight the seam of his thighs pressed together, and Joe bends down, bracing his hand over Pete's knee almost instinctively and stares down at the way his finger curves around the skin.

"Fuck," Joe mutters, slipping his fingers higher. "Look, stop me if I'm like. You know."

"Okay. It's, mhm," Pete says, shaking his head. His voice comes out barely more than air, too soft at the edges.

Joe feels sort of removed from himself. It's as if he's watching his hand move of its own accord, inching along and parting Pete's thighs again slowly. Pete keeps his mouth closed, breathing heavy through his nose and watching Joe with hooded eyes as Joe's other hand joins in the push upward on Pete's opposite leg. He finds his way up the skirt again, nails clawing at Pete's underwear lightly until he feels his way to the waistband, and during it all, Joe's somehow ended up on his knees.

Pete hunches forward, Joe sensing the new kiss before he gets it. His hands pause on the elastic of Pete's boxer briefs as Pete's mouth opens for him. He huffs out a ragged breath, shifting his hips forward in silent encouragement, and he whimpers in his throat at Joe's first careful tug.

"Do it," he says, when Joe pulls another time, experimenting. 

Pete ducks back, head thumping against the couch cushions dully and now Joe slips the underwear down Pete's hips a lot quicker. They skim down his thighs and over his knees, getting caught on the boots that Pete wears. Joe unzips them, sliding those off and then letting the underwear fall to the floor, and Pete helps bring himself forward when Joe grabs onto his hips and coaxes Pete closer, both anxious and exhilarated by the knowledge that Pete's exposed without that skirt, naked ass on the couch cushions.

They maneuver so that Joe can cover him on the couch, now kissing with a ferocity that Joe almost let dissipate moments ago, and feeling the way the smooth skin of Pete's thigh blends into the smooth curve of ass minus the interruption of an extra layer of cotton. 

Grunting, Pete says, "Shit. Fuck, I swear, I'm like two seconds away from asking you to fuck me."

Joe curses into Pete's cheek, gritting his teeth against the skin, and says, "I, um. I think I could, yeah. "

" _Joe_ ," Pete says, pleads, and it sounds dirty in a way that Joe has never had the pleasure of hearing before, but goddamn if he doesn't respond to it, the heat in his belly flaring. He thrusts, earning another filthy sound from Pete, watching him push his head back into the couch, and Joe knows. He knows this is going to happen.

"Okay," Joe says, flattening his hand over Pete's stomach and pushing his shirt up. Pete arches into the touch. "Do you have stuff? Lube and stuff."

"Yeah. Sure, check the bathroom," Pete says.

"Alright. Alright, hold on."

Somewhere between digging through the drawers in Pete's nearest bathroom for Wet and condoms and moving back to the couch, Joe really lets it sink in fully. He comes around the couch from behind, and Pete's looking away for a second before he notices Joe's returned, eyes then following his movements. He stretches his arms over his head, licking his lips once and not smiling as Joe resumes his earlier position. His skirt rides even higher now, practically up around his waist, and that's a brand new contrast. There's Pete's hard cock and then a skirt twisted around his body as Joe gets him to lift his hips and relax so that Joe can slick his fingers and push the first one in slowly, blinking at the sound of Pete's strangled moaned.

"Ah." His mouth freezes in a delicate pout, and Joe simply pulls out and pushes in a second time.

"You good?"

"Yeah," Pete says, reassuring him.

He takes it surprisingly easy, or at least it's surprising to Joe. Pete asks for the second finger much quicker than Joe would have assumed, and now he's even more curious about what Pete's done and who he might have done it with before now. It makes sense that there would have been someone before Joe, but he has a hard time trying to picture it. Even considering the guys he's seen Pete kiss and the way he's always played on the razor-thin edge between flirting with pushing those boundaries and really going for it, Joe had just never considered _Pete_ here, meeting the push of someone's fingers inside him and groaning.

The only thing more surreal is when he slicks up and finally thrusts into Pete himself, his pants unbuckled and shoved down to his ankles. Their movement is a little restricted on the couch. Joe has to stop to replant his hands or knees a couple times, but Pete curses and demands Joe just go for it, as hard as he can, and so Joe begins again in earnest.

"I need, I. Joe, I want," Pete says, unable to hold off the small gasps each time Joe's skin slaps against Pete's ass, and they're both sweating before long. Pete's tight, and Joe's fingers fit snugly on his hips, probably leaving oval prints on the even skin, and Joe slides out to drive back in as roughly as he can.

"Yeah," Pete says, voice thin and reedy. "Yeah, if."

The hat he's wearing slips off the more he turns his head back and forth on the couch, writhing. Somehow, during everything, Joe almost stops seeing the contrast in it all and just sees Pete. He's wearing a girl's t-shirt, wearing smudged eyeliner, and a skirt shoved high around his waist, and only one of those things is particularly out of the ordinary. He keens as Joe fucks him, and when he fists his own dick, ensuring that the skirt stays rucked up, Joe can't look away from how Pete pulls at his own cock until he comes over his fist and stomach, ruining his clothes.

The sight of it undoes Joe. It's either that or the way Pete smirks -- fucking smirks for the second time since Joe walked in and his jaw dropped seeing Pete in a full outfit -- that has Joe tighten his grip on Pete's legs, snap his hips forward once, twice more, and feel his back bow as he comes inside of the same guy who'd tried to gargle the spelling of Joe's full name (first, middle, and last) with a mouthful of Pepsi the day they met just to prove that he could. It's weird, and it's a rush, and Joe slips out of Pete wetly, letting himself topple over the side of the couch and onto the floor.

"-- wheih, hmp," Joe says to the ceiling, communicating in nonsense noises and breathing in great gulps. On the couch, Pete echoes the sentiment and Joe comes down from the tremors running through him from his position on the floor, meaning to say something else, but his limbs and mouth and everything feel loose and sated, and it's easier to relax, letting his eyes rest just for a moment while he catches his breath.

;;

The sun is out when the phone rings. Joe doesn't register either of those facts until he's jolted awake by someone tripping over his legs, making him hiss as a foot lands right on his shin. He shouts and swings reflexively, his blow skimming off of Pete's leg as he steps over Joe. Pete pauses to get out of the skirt, and then walks to grab the telephone only covered from the waist up. His hair sticks up in the back, and Joe laughs sleepily to himself until he registers that his own pants are still tangled around his feet.

Holy shit.

Sitting upright, Joe can see Pete with the phone to his ear in the kitchen. He leans against the counter, scratching his side. He isn't looking in Joe's direction, so Joe takes the opportunity to gather himself, pulling his pants over his hips and then making a carefully nonchalant but urgent dash for the guest bathroom in order to hop into the shower. He locks the door behind himself, turns the water on hot, and he doesn't let go of the breath he's holding until he's under the spray of water, letting the rush of it temporarily drown out other sounds and all his thoughts.

The reprieve is too short, because as soon as he opens his eyes and stares at the white tile, Joe can't help thinking about everything. He fucked Pete last night. They fucked, and it was strange and unexpected, and.

"Hey," Pete calls through the bathroom door, a solid knock accompanying the shout.

Joe's pulse spikes from the suddenness of it, heart thumping. Weirdest morning after of his life so far, and he hasn't even had to face Pete yet, not really.

"Yeah?" he calls back.

"Hurry up, man, Patrick made too many pancakes. He wants us to come share," Pete says.

"I'm almost done," Joe says over the rushing water. At least having something to do will mean less opportunity to stand around and avoid each other's gazes. Not that Joe is dreading that or expecting that to happen in the first place.

When he gets out of the shower and changes into fresh clothes, Pete's gotten into the shower himself. Joe can hear the water in Pete's master bathroom running as he walks by, going to get a drink from the kitchen, idly considering the toes of his sneakers and how hot Pete's skin had felt under his palms. This is his life, this is the aftermath, and he has no idea what he'd been thinking last night, but it had felt good during the haze of it. It had felt really good.

"You ready?" Pete asks, shrugging on a hoodie and holding keys in his hand.

"Yeah," Joe says. It's the easiest answer. He dumps his water, sets the glass on the counter, and follows Pete out of the house.

Patrick's place is a good ten minutes away from Pete's house, tops, and when they get up to his apartment, he opens the door smiling the smile of someone who hasn't fucked his bassist a few hours prior. Joe sort of envies him that.

"Wow, did one of you fall in the toilet and need help or something?" Patrick asks as they come inside. "I had to reheat the food." 

"As long as there _is_ food," Joe says, watching Pete head right to the kitchen after he gives Patrick a high-five. "I was promised griddle cakes."

"You're letting that guy beat you to them," Patrick says, pointing in the general direction where Pete's drifted. "Were you guys up already?"

"No," Pete says as they get closer to the kitchen. He picks up a pancake and folds it in half, biting off part of it as is, no butter or syrup. "Dude, and since when are you ever awake before noon when you don't have to be. Did the baby have a nightmare?"

Patrick says, "I think my whole sleep schedule, clock -- you know. I'm still a couple hours off."

"What time did you get in last night?" Joe asks, opening a couple cabinets and not finding plates to use. He tries one more cabinet, this time turning up a few boxes of cookies and a random can of ravioli. Patrick opens a cabinet on the other side of the kitchen and passes a plate to Joe, allowing Joe to grab four pancakes from the stack on the counter. He's got some catching up to do. Pete's already on his second.

"I got in late," Patrick says. "And I passed out as soon as I got here, so I was awake again at like sunrise. That'll probably correct itself by tomorrow. I meant to stay up and get in touch with you as soon as I got settled."

"Ehh, don't worry about it," Pete says. Joe has a childish urge to emphasize that, _really_ , Patrick shouldn't worry. More than that, he allows himself a silent moment to internally thank Moses that Patrick hadn't just shown up once he landed. The ways in which the whole scene would have played out badly for everyone scroll through Joe's mind like a slideshow, and he's just very thankful.

As laid back as it is, breakfast has Joe on edge. It's the knowledge that there's something he isn't saying -- the gigantic white elephant in the room that Patrick has no idea is even occupying all the space in his apartment and Pete won't acknowledge. It kills Joe, and he tries not to stab at his pancakes too forcefully just to relieve some of the tension in him.

Patrick wants to run a bunch of errands during the afternoon, for which Pete and Joe decide not to tag along. He has a whole list of places he routinely visits when he comes to Los Angeles, starting with Amoeba records on Sunset and ending with ordering from the secret menu at In 'N Out a couple blocks away from his house. Patrick hasn't eaten strictly vegan or vegetarian in a while, but he admits that there's still something about ordering fast food grilled cheese sandwiches that just hits the spot every time, and Joe says that that all sounds lovely.

"But we have a date with a Swiffer," Pete cuts in, and Joe could protest, except part of him feels like that would be admitting some kind of defeat. 

"So you're ditching me early?" Patrick asks.

Joe jerks a thumb in Pete's direction, saying, "I'm helping this guy clean up his act."

"Ohh, funny guy," Pete says, giving Joe a withering smile.

They're smooth. The whole morning goes smoothly -- eating, leaving Patrick's house, and even the short ride home flows by like nothing's looming. Joe rolls down the passenger window to get some fresh air, and he feels a little skittish. He's unsure of himself, of his hands and how he looks and how he's going to get from the car to Pete's living room without blurting something about how he fucked one of his best friends as he walks by one of Pete's neighbors taking out the trash, but he angles his face toward the open window and breathes. Next to him, Pete hums along with something on the radio.

Joe spends the preceding minutes dreading the moment so intensely that it almost strikes him as anti-climatic when they walk into the house, and Pete asks, "Dude, are you going to fucking say something or what?"

Joe has a few options. He could pretend that he has no clue what Pete means and risk getting punched in the mouth, or he could acknowledge what Pete means -- has to mean -- and risk getting punched in the mouth. Options weighed, Joe simply asks, "What? When, while we were talking to Patrick?"

"No," Pete says, nearly shouts, but he catches himself and then takes a moment to get the front door closed. The calm Joe felt coming in disappears before he can really enjoy it, and it's when Pete turns around again to face Joe fully that his adrenaline kicks into hyperdrive.

"This is one of those things most people wouldn't want to talk about," he says.

"Well, I'm pretty much self-obsessed," Pete says. "Unfortunately for you. I don't know how to, like. What are you thinking right now?"

A lot. Joe has so many different thoughts all buzzing in his mind right now that they cancel each other out, leaving one steady, rhythmic droning chorus of, _What the fuck is going on?_ He coughs, clearing his throat and trying to maintain the reputation that precedes him. He's the cool, collected one. He can handle this.

"Honestly?" Joe asks, and Pete nods, eyebrows drawn together and mouth tight like he's on the verge of panic. Joe can recognize the look because it's about how he feels currently. "I'm half a step from freaking out."

Pete exhales in a rush, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. It's too early for relief, but Joe can imagine that he had been expecting worse. It's still early in the conversation though. He asks, "Like, bad? Freaking in a bad way?"

"Are there other ways?"

Pete huffs, laughing gruffly. It isn't pleasant, more dejected than anything, and he says, "Dude, trust me, I'm only trying to feel you out, because if you lose it, then I have to pretend to be the one here with his head on straight."

"Had you ever done that?" Joe asks. It's easier to get it out a second time. But unlike last night, Joe needs a real answer.

Pete says, "Which part?"

"All of it -- Pete," Joe says, and he steps back and braces his arms on the back of the couch. Pete opens his mouth, and then shrugs. Joe sighs. He can start with the question he's already got an idea about. "Okay, the, uh. How about the me thing? Guys."

"Are you asking about who else has fucked me?" Pete asks, smirking suddenly. It's reflexive, Joe knows. Pete Wentz can't resist making sex a key part of his punchline, but Joe has never been less in the mood. "You want to know if you were my first?"

"Pete."

"Nope," Pete says, the smugness dropping away. He shifts on his feet, hiding the hand holding his car and house keys in the pocket of his hoodie. "You?"

"New to me." Joe straightens up, cracking the knuckles of his right hand, and asks, "So, then, uhm. And the clothes?"

Pete looks up at the ceiling again, taking a moment, and this whole conversation refuses to get easier. Joe's still tense, skin too warm and this is almost the way it started: Pete standing around and Joe looking -- just looking. Pete looks completely different now. It's crazy how much one combination of items matters, and Joe's unsettled, half-tempted to run and get out of the room but ultimately stuck to his spot, staring.

Eventually, Pete says, "The clothes, no. I mean, not like that, not more than messing around because it was funny, or. You know, or whatever."

"Yeah," Joe says, more to himself than to Pete. He looks a few feet to the side, giving his attention to the plain walls and waiting for what he wants or should say next to just come to him. It doesn't.

"Did you like it?"

Joe cuts his eyes toward Pete again. He slides his hands out on the couch and then back. Something heavy and tight settles in his stomach, uncurling slowly, and Joe wonders if this is what trapped feels like. Did he like it? The night before Joe had mapped the expanse of Pete's thighs, felt the way his measured breaths made his stomach swell and dip, the tattoo under Joe's fingers leading to tan skin that disappeared under the waistband of tight fabric. 

"Joe," Pete repeats, and he walks closer. He isn't intimidating or being coy, just asking as plainly as can be expected. Does Joe like it? Does he?

"Which part?" Joe asks, starting small.

Pete shrugs a shoulder, jiggling the keys in his pocket. "Any of it."

Joe stops leaning on the couch, planting his feet squarely and crossing his arms over his chest. "I think that -- what if -- "

"Because, like, we can bail or whatever, but I need to -- "

"All of it," Joe says. He blinks and feels a fleeting wave of lightheadedness, or nausea, but it passes and Pete's still standing in front of him. He's close enough that he has to begin tilting his face up a little to maintain eye contact, focused and breathing through his mouth carefully, like the moment is suspended.

Joe half expects Pete to make him repeat himself, silent and looking blankly at Joe's shirt, but then he asks, "Are you sure?"

Joe doesn't know. He scratches his forearm and says, "I don't know, I guess it depends on you. Do you. Did _you_ like it?"

Pete nods so slowly that Joe doesn't catch on to what he's doing right away. He takes a step back and then rocks forward, fidgety. He says, "I like," and chuckles sort of lamely. "I like that you're not leaving."

The nervous flutter coursing along Joe's skin then isn't entirely unwelcome, even if it is still just as overwhelming. Joe echoes Pete's awkward amusement and admits that, "No, but I'm... pretty terrified right now, dude."

"Oh, yep. Yeah, I -- yeah" Pete says, and he retreats again. Taking off his hoodie and flinging it over the arm of the couch. He stands in front of Joe again, and at least. At least they're on the same page.

;;

Joe has always thought of boundaries as the borderline to some kind of metaphorical oblivion. Once he crosses a limit, there's just nothing that follows, whatever it was that he might have taken too far getting ruined or lost forever. He thinks it might be a mental habit left over from when he was a kid, trained not to do things like convince his brother to go sledding down the stairs in their house simply because his parents said not to do so, and it was a threat, but Joe hadn't really known what would happen if he did it anyway. The educated guess would be that the results involved painful consequences, and that's what he still thinks now sometimes: on the other side of the line there's either pain or vast nothingness.

Reality turns out to prove the rule rather than shatter it. Joe has stood in Pete's house, crossed a line and then talked about it afterwards, and now they're left with more tension and uncertainty. It turns out that knowing he'd push up Pete's skirt again doesn't automatically mean it'll happen right away. It doesn't even mean that Joe wants it to, not in the middle of the afternoon just because.

After the confessions are out there, Joe doesn't really know what to do with them. Unhelpfully, neither does Pete, so they go about their business as close to 'usual' as they can. They clean, eat dinner, laugh about bad reality television and reruns of VH1 Countdowns, Pete's attention divided between the screen and sending messages on his phone. It's a lot like any other day, except when they turn in a little earlier than usual, Joe can't pretend his mind is on anything other than the dude in the bedroom down the hall.

Joe isn't leaving. He won't be going back to Chicago to try and avoid Pete, but he also doesn't really know what to do in that action's stead. He stays and... what? He stares at the ceiling, lying under the covers in the guest bedroom and wondering who's supposed to make the next move?

His answer comes a lot faster than he anticipates. Joe's only been lying down for a half an hour or so when his cellphone lights up and buzzes from the nightstand. He rocks onto his side, snatching the phone and checking the two new messages he receives, one right after the other. The light from the phone glows bright in the dark, and as soon as Joe opens the first thing in his inbox -- a picture message -- Joe recognizes Pete's face, black-rimmed eyes and straight hair. Joe laughs to himself, noting the upward angle and how it's never too late to take a signature internet shot when your name is Pete.

The second message gets to the point more than the first. Now, Joe's looking at the length of Pete's body, the line of his torso down to his legs and thighs, knees raised so that Joe can see he's wearing a new skirt, the fabric falling low, but not revealing anything from this point of view. Pete has his knees spread delicately, nothing too obvious, but simply the suggestion of sex.

It's Joe's move. He could slide out of bed and walk the short way to Pete's room. He could push the door open and pin Pete to the mattress with the weight of his own body. Joe could hitch his legs up in a way similar to last night, Pete gritting his teeth against the sounds of his own arousal and failing to contain them. Joe could do any number of things to recreate that experience, hold on to it and maybe bend it more, see where else Pete takes them rather than letting his hand seek out the warm darkness of the blankets over his middle, reaching inside his boxers and palming his cock.

In the third picture sent, Pete has rolled over onto his stomach. His face is still out of frame, with the camera held out at his side to get a shot of the way the clothes pull tight across his ass. Joe laughs again, chokes on a sound that should be light but comes out ugly as he strokes the length of his cock once and squeezes. No text ever comes along with the photos, and Joe could pretend that he doesn't know what to do without that, except he's already slamming the phone face-down into the mattress, shutting his eyes and drawing up the ghosts of past sensation, reveling in it. The first shock of seeing Pete, the spark of touching him and sensing the shift between aimlessness and intent. All of it's branded behind his eyelids, maybe even more than the memory of pushing inside Pete just a little. It's the temptation that's suffocating, that has Joe stripping his cock alone in the guest room when he could get himself together and make it happen twice.

He kicks back the covers, letting the comforter and sheets bunch under the balls of his feet. The wind outside is calmer than it has been, not making any noise even with the window open, the only sound coming from Joe's own tattered breathing. It's loud in his ears and stings in his lungs, inhale hitching when he thinks he hears a door creak and imagines, hopes, and fears that Pete's taking all progress upon himself. Slender legs and short skirt coming into the room, hunting him through the darkness, and Joe could just thrust up and in as soon their positioning was right. He's dizzy with the thought of it, of being caught, and Joe bites the inside of his lip so hard he thinks he'll leave marks as he frees his dick just in time to come into his own hand and not his shorts, splashes landing on his belly and hip.

This is it, stark and terrifying. It isn't even midnight yet, Joe thinks, glancing at his phone again and closing the pictures out. He pants in the silence, memorizing the sound of his own excitement, the same and unfamiliar, and the last thing he does before he sleeps is pull off his t-shirt to wipe himself as clean as possible.

He doesn't know how long he manages to stay out before the breeze drifting into window interrupts everything, the return of the wind sending a chill cascading over Joe. He's fucking cold. It's still dark outside, so it's late but not morning, and in the cover of the night, the first thing on Joe's mind once he pulls the covers over himself from the foot of the bed is still Pete.

His phone has gotten pushed aside, and Joe paws for it. No new messages are waiting, but the first ones are so good that it doesn't matter, and Joe's thumb slides back and forth over the keypad of his phone, struggling with indecisiveness, before he sets it on the nightstand and gets up.

The trip from his bedroom to Pete's seems like a journey until he walks it, standing outside of the cracked door and pushing it wider with his palm. Joe would like to pretend he isn't nervous. He might also like to pretend he's at least a little drunk, something, because that kind of preparation makes everything at least seem like it'll be a piece of cake. All Joe has, though, are his nerves and stone cold sober rationale, but he's still moving into Pete's bedroom where the television is on and Pete has dozed off without changing.

Fight or flight. It doesn't make sense and yet it's a perfect way to think of this moment, Joe gradually making his way to the bed, crawling up from the bottom and nudging Pete's side until he stirs. He's sleeping on his stomach, body almost in a straight line, and Joe bumps his legs together, climbing over him to sit on his thighs. Pete jumps, startling as he rouses, and Joe speaks up quickly to put him at ease.

"Hey, hey," he says. "It's me."

"Whoa," Pete says, catching his breath and turning his face to the side as best as he can to see Joe. "Make more noise when you come in."

"Sorry," Joe says, dipping forward and hesitating over Pete's back.

Pete squirms beneath Joe, naked thighs against Joe's own where his boxers stop. He says, "I almost thought -- you know. Maybe the pictures were a bad idea."

"No, they," Joe says. He gives in and bends completely to lean on Pete's shoulder blade. He brings his hands to Pete's sides, testing the way his fingers play under the hem of Pete's shirt, smoothing them in towards Pete's spine and then out. "They were good. I liked them."

"Oh," Pete breathes, sighing into the pressure of Joe's touch. He bumps his hips back, ass brushing against Joe's middle. "Okay. Good."

"Mhm."

"Then, what. What took so long?" Pete asks, still making small pleased sounds in between his words as Joe massages the muscles in his lower back and down around his waist. He lifts his hips again, and now Joe slides up so that the movement meets his own his, dick nudging against Pete's ass, the sliding making the skirt ride higher.

Joe says, "Nothing, I mean. I guess -- " and he snaps forward, making his point that way, and Pete's mouth splits into a mischievous, sly grin.

"Dude, you got off on me," he says, playful and accusatory. When he pushes his ass up this time, Joe takes the opportunity to sneak his hand around the front of Pete, slowly pulling up the clothes until his fingers brush against the bare tops of Pete's thighs. He isn't wearing underwear.

"I, uhm," Joe says, and Pete laughs.

"You _definitely_ got off on me," he confirms. Joe shoves his hand down between Pete and the mattress until he grips Pete's cock, and Pete curses. His smile gets busted wide open as he gasps against his pillow.

Joe thrusts against him, saying, "Yeah, it was kind of like that."

"Do you wanna fuck again?" Pete asks. He's insistent and pushing his ass higher, giving Joe as much room as possible to jerk him off.

Joe declines, muttering against Pete's back. "Mm-mm, this is -- let me do this."

"Okay." 

The friction isn't the best it could be. Even when Pete pushes back with as much force as he can muster, it's not really enough room to maneuver with complete ease, because Joe isn't really letting up. His weight covers Pete, and their movement is stunted, but between the persistent twist of his hand and Pete's eager thrusts, Joe gets him there. Hands between his legs and clothes pushed up just like before. Pete bares his teeth, cursing into cotton, and Joe kneads the muscles in his back as he rides out Pete's orgasm with him, voice coming out in a desperate groan.

"Fuck," Pete says, "Fuck," and that's about the beginning and end of it. Joe relaxes over him a moment, Pete breathing hard and exhaling with a heavy sigh as Joe slides off and to the side of him on the mattress. As he goes to remove his hand, Pete shoves both of his down and grabs Joe's wrist, cupping his own fingers around Joe's to keep his hand around Pete's dick. Joe looks down to see their hands caged beneath Pete's body and then back up to his face, eyes closed and mouth parted.

Joe asks, "You good?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Pete says, thin and pitched higher than normal.

Joe squeezes, tightens his grip, and Pete's whole body spasms, making him swear again. His eyes snap open, locking his gaze with Joe's in the dark, and when Joe tries to take away his hand this time, Pete lets it happen. He doesn't move as Joe props himself on one elbow and skims his other hand over Pete's neck, leaning in to graze his mouth along Pete's jaw, affectionate almost-kisses.

"What is this?" Joe asks, backing away enough to see it if Pete reacts. His breaths still come a little shallow, and he blinks slowly, sleepily.

He says, "I don't know."

"Don't you think it's kind of," Joe asks, and he stops. It's the weirdest thing he's ever done. Kinkiest, maybe, is the right word, but. "I just don't know what it is."

"Me neither," Pete says. He makes the effort to shift finally, pulling himself to the side, turning into Joe's delicate touch, dragging along Pete's neck and down over his shoulder. "Do you want to sleep in here?"

Yes, Joe thinks, and he might even say as much as Pete knocks his arm away to reach down toward Joe's boxers, tugging down the front. His pulls are sure, strong but not rushed, and Joe tucks his face into the pillow next to Pete's, rocking into Pete's fist.

"I guess we could, like," Pete says, and Joe looks at him, but his focus is on Joe's waist, on the work of his own grip. "Maybe it's like a game. Kind of fun."

"Mm," Joe moans, agreeing, and Pete's right. This is good. Pete's hand on Joe's cock is hot, Joe's stomach winding tight. He likes the roughness it, the callused fingers. Joe bumps their heads together, his mouth pressed to Pete's temple, letting warmth collect inside him and spread outward, enjoying it, the rush of it, and it's fun. He sees white behind the lids of his eyes as he hits that high point for the second time in one night, spilling out in thick splashes over Pete's fingers, their secret safe and muffled between them.

;;

The hard part, Joe thinks, is admitting to one of your best friends that you liked fucking him in his ex-girlfriend's skirt. Everything that follows isn't exactly easy, but when Pete has on another one of those skirts, peels off his t-shirt in the morning and asks Joe to tie it tight around his eyes, saying yes is less stressful than the first encounters.

The second time Joe fucks Pete it's in Pete's bed with Pete's leg over his shoulder, driving into him slow but steady. Joe can't see Pete's face, simply hears the sound of Pete's voice encouraging him as Joe studies the contours of his body with cool hands, and Pete tells him to try it harder, fuck him harder, until he shouts and Joe can tell he comes from the way he tenses. Joe follows almost immediately, and it's the second most intense orgasm of Joe's life, only surpassed by the one he'd managed on Pete's couch. He can't really put words to what they're doing, but there's something exhilarating in the way it plays out.

"What about that? Did you like that?" Pete asks, and Joe nods against his cheek, forehead damp with sweat. Pete nudges Joe's shoulder to get him to lift away, allow Pete room. Joe moves the shirt and gives Joe an opportunity to peek, Pete's smile sort of goofy and wide, eyes still tired but bright. He looks like someone who's just been fucked through a mattress and loved it. It looks alright on him.

Joe asks, "Why the blindfold?"

"I don't know," Pete says. He removes the shirt from Joe's head entirely. "It seemed like fun."

"Right," Joe says, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He leans in and kisses Pete, nothing but impulse behind the quick peck. He's sort of shocked at himself, realizing how much they haven't done that again since the whirlwind two nights ago. Pete chases Joe's mouth though, and Joe obliges, kissing Pete with intent.

They devote a respectable number of minutes to making out in the sunshine of the morning, rutting against each other without purpose. Joe can feel his underwear still twisted around one ankle, and Pete is hanging loose without a shirt and the skirt scrunched around his stomach like a knotted belt by now. Joe feels a little grimy, a little filthy, but too caught up in all of it to do more than moan about it.

While Pete takes a shower, Joe goes back to the front of the house and stands around staring at the bags of clothes waiting to go to Goodwill. Pete could sell some it -- all of it, if he wanted, but Joe knows he won't. For Pete, it's not about where a lot of it ends up as long as it's gone. 

He sits down in front of one of the couches and rummages through the clothing. Joe picks out the ones he likes, separating them from the pile. Skirt, shirts, shorts, knee-socks. He doesn't keep anything that looks familiar to him, and after minor rearranging, Joe takes a bag upstairs and sets it on Pete's floor by the bed, leaving the rest. Setting it down, Joe considers the contents. A small plastic garbage bag with women's clothes, and he laughs before he can really help, folding his hand over his mouth and letting the absurdity of the moment course over him.

"What's so funny?" Pete asks, coming out of the bathroom, one towel around his waist as he scrubs another over his hair.

"Huh? Uh, whatever, nothing," Joe says, turning away from the bag. "Just my life, man."

Pete smiles, leaving the towel draped over his head. He tugs at either end, bringing it down tight like some kind of hood and shares Joe's mirth. "Yeah, I've had that reaction." 

The last couple days have been more surreal that Joe's experienced in a long time. As their band started to really go somewhere, building momentum, Joe had gotten used to existing within a constant state of disbelief. The last few days with Pete have felt like that, except concentrated into a shorter amount of time and shaken up with the cap still sealed.

Tonight, Pete's taking time to DJ an event in West Hollywood, and Joe's going to make good on his rain check with Patrick. With the exception of a short breakfast with Patrick yesterday, Joe has spent the past two days preoccupied with Pete, with everything between them, unconcerned with the rest of the world. Getting ready to leave the house feels like Joe's working up to something important, but when they leave the house and decide to hit Melrose for a while to kill the hours, Joe finds that everything outside still looks the way it always does.

Pete pops in a CD, some mix of songs that he plays from the third track onward, and Joe stares out of the window to watch the hipster chic on the sidewalks, people walking their dogs, everything he sees every day here. When Joe points out some creepy-looking dude wearing a bright, neon orange hat on La Brea, Pete laughs, and that doesn't sound any different either. He thumps his knuckles against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the stereo, and they're just two dudes hanging out.

"Oh, shit, we should have grabbed that stuff and brought it out to get rid of," Pete says at a stoplight. He leans back in his seat, resting for a minute instead of driving with his face practically in the windshield, which has amused Joe since they first met.

"We can take them out tomorrow," Joe says. When he glances to his left, Pete's watching him. He smiles pleasantly. 

"Yeah." Pete gives the road his attention again, yawning. "Are you sure you don't want to come party with me?"

"I already promised Patrick," Joe says. The light changes, and Pete gases it, leaning forward.

He says, "Aw, dude, but I promise my set is fucking amazing lately. Have you heard it?"

"I'll take your word," Joe says. "I have faith in your mad skills to screw and chop."

"I'm kind of a genius, I won't pretend otherwise," Pete says, laughing as he does and giving himself away. He doesn't even believe his own hype.

The thing about boutiques and other shops on Melrose is that Pete gets into them more than Joe ever really does. Joe will see something he likes a lot and then purchases that item on occasion, but Pete knows a lot more about the designers and brands and real quality. Joe knows what he likes. That's the extent of his creative work with Clandestine, in fact: telling Pete what he likes, and any knowledge about the industry, he usually just picks it up from listening to Pete talk.

They browse a few places and inevitably surrender to the craving for coffee. They order drinks from one of the corner spots, which Pete then complains taste better when Starbucks makes them.

"It's a latte. How does anyone mess that up?" Joe asks.

Pete sips his drink again and frowns. "Okay, maybe I'm just a loyalist."

"I'm sure there are a bunch of people who'd kill you for saying that."

"They may take my life, but they'll never take my dedication to a good venti vanilla with whip," Pete swears, crossing his heart for emphasis.

In the next shop they try, Pete gets into a conversation with the owner about her designs. Joe browses the walls and racks. The place is tiny, so he covers everything fast and concludes his personal tour by checking out the mannequin in the window. The ensemble is relatively simple, a black dress -- halter? -- that ties up at the back of the neck and then lets the fabric stream down the spine. It plunges low in the back, and the mannequin wears three brightly colored bracelets and has a blue purse shoved into the hand. Relatively simple, and yet Joe bets it all cost way more than a couple hundred dollars all together. He wonders, briefly, how it might look worn for real rather than a display.

"It would make a good present for a girlfriend," Joe hears and tunes into the rest of the world. The shop owner is smiling at him earnestly. "Are you considering buying it for someone?"

"Am I what? Oh, no," Joe says, and next to her, Pete's holding his cup of coffee and peering at him with just as much curiosity. "I'm just looking at everything."

"That's fine," she says, and Joe lets her try to convince him to get it for someone special another time before declining politely. 

When she walks away, Pete steps in. Joe anticipates his laughter and mockery, but with the exception of a quick, private chuckle as he drinks more of his coffee, Pete doesn't say anything.

Lowering his cup, he asks, "Ready to move on?" and Joe has to catch up to the part where he's not being made fun of before he can nod and follow.

After another hour of mostly aimless browsing, Patrick calls Joe to ask if he's ready to catch an early dinner at almost the same time Pete checks his watch and announces that he should probably leave for his event. Joe tells Patrick the intersection he plans to hang around, waiting, and Pete pats Joe's shoulder.

"Now you're sure you don't want to come with me?" Pete asks.

Joe knocks the back of his hand against Pete's side, pushing him on. He says, "No, dude, I'll just catch you at your place. Go play some booty anthems for drunk people."

He takes off, and Joe waits for Patrick. His car is there within a few minutes, which is one of the perks about living right in the heart of the Hollywood area -- accessibility. Elisa's in town now as well, and the three of them set off in search of somewhere with a decent menu.

Patrick has this habit where he can't stand eating at restaurants that are too expensive, because he isn't the biggest fan of seafood unless it's sushi. The way Joe's noticed it over the years is that more the expensive a spot is, the more seafood they'll have on the menu, so their goal for fine dining is to try to locate places that include a decent burger selection among what they serve. The Rainbow Bar & Grill does right by them for the most part.

They grab a booth in the corner, and the building's so dark inside that they at least have some privacy despite yelling over the music to really hear one another. Joe orders a beer with his meal for the hell of it, happy to relax in his seat and nurse it once he's finished eating too, conversing with Patrick and Elisa.

"Are you and Pete still clearing out his place?" Patrick asks.

"Sort of," Joe says. If that's what they still want to generally call what they're doing. "A lot of the junk is cleared out and ready to be taken care of, so. Now we pretty much hang around. No thanks to you."

"Joe, I don't even like having to straighten up my own stuff," Patrick says, and Elisa chimes in to confirm that fact. She's learned all too well.

After the meal, Patrick and Elisa invite Joe to stick with them as long as he wants. They don't have much of a plan, but Pete isn't home, and Joe didn't bother to go rent a car. He's at the whim of other people, and that's fine. He's vacationing. He can roll with the punches. Joe keeps them company while Patrick carts them all over the area, and it's while they're in an audio/video store so Patrick can look into buying new tweeters that Joe's phone buzzes, signaling a new message:

_at home. dont invite anyone in whenyou get here._

"Pete?" Patrick asks, and Joe looks up from his phone. 

"Yeah. He's just telling me how much I'm missing out," he says, putting the cell away again quickly and wondering how hard it'll be to get dropped off and avoid asking Patrick and Elisa if they want to stick around.

Luckily, once that time presents itself, Patrick and Elisa don't really want to linger anyway. That can be the nice thing about couples who spend limited time together. They'd rather spend time entertaining each other. Patrick drops Joe off, and he tells Joe to let Pete know that he says hello. He says that they should all try to get together again before Joe goes back to Chicago.

"When do you go back?" Patrick says. "Did you say? Because I'm out here until the end of the month."

"Like a week," Joe says. "You know, before my parents have a fit because I haven't gone to see them yet."

Patrick nods as Joe slips out the car and shuts the door. Through the window, he calls, "Alright, hey, just ring me."

"Will do. Later!" Joe waves them off as they drive away, standing outside until the car is out of sight. He thinks about Pete's text message, jogs to the front door and then hesitates.

To knock or not to knock? Joe takes out his spare key and once again walks into the house without ringing the bell first. He closes the door behind him, makes sure he locks it, and removes his hoodie off at the door.

"Hey, I'm back!" he calls, giving at least a minor warning and pausing to listen for some sign of any other presence. The lights are on, and Pete had said he'd be at home. "Hello?"

"Kitchen!" Joe hears.

He hangs up his hoodie on his way to find Pete. In the kitchen, Joe slows his steps as he enters, and all he sees is the refrigerator door open and hears Pete rummaging inside.

"Hey," Joe says again, leaning against the wall. "How was your thing?"

"Good," Pete says. "Sorry, I just got thirsty, but the alcohol is all up front while the water and stuff is in the back. Hold on."

"Sure."

"Okay," Pete says, and when he stands upright, moving back to shut the fridge, that's when Joe gets a glimpse of him. He's no longer a disembodied voice but instead grabs Joe's full attention like Joe's a deer in headlights. "There was this girl there, right? She had this wig on, dancing with her friends. She kept asking me to just please play that Bonnie Tyler song. 'I Need A Hero'? Anyway, she was so drunk that she didn't even know she'd lost it."

"You stole a girl's wig?" Joe asks, because Pete is definitely wearing a wig now. It's almost the same color as his own hair, maybe a little lighter, definitely longer, and he's tied a scarf around his head to keep it in place.

"She was gone already," Pete says. The skirt is missing this time, replaced by a pair of small shorts with suspenders over a white tank top. He's also wearing a pair of platform sandals, giving him an extra inch. "So?"

"Did you shave your legs?" Joe asks, smiling tentatively. 

Pete breaks, mouth pulling into a grin as he giggles. "You kind of took a long time. I got experimental."

Joe echoes his faint laughter, genuinely impressed. He says, "Wow. And you like shoes with height, huh?"

"They make me taller, dude," Pete says, smiling. Standing right in front of Joe, he and Pete are face-to-face, eyes on the same level. Joe thinks Pete sort of looks like his sister. "Ashlee used to have like an inch, inch and a half on me in this kind of footwear."

"Are these more clothes you found?"

Pete smirks. "Yeah. Although I think you picked the shorts."

"Did I?" Joe extends his arms, holding Pete off to give the outfit another scan. Those _had_ been in the bag Joe brought to Pete's room that morning. They fit really well. "Wow, they look good on you."

Pete laughs softly, grin catching on his lips and lingering. Joe guides him forward by the hips instinctively, enjoying the way the the curve of Pete's hips fit under his palms. Pete tilts his head to the side, leans into Joe and scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip.

"Hey. Hey, stranger, what's your name?" he asks, and Joe laughs, disbelieving, but Pete just keeps smiling. 

Joe says, "You're so goofy."

"You're not gonna tell me?" Pete asks, voice hushed now. It's still ridiculous, but Pete isn't breaking right away, expression mild. He raises his arms to hook them over Joe's shoulders and cranes his face in close. "Tell me your name."

Joe's pulse is giving into Pete again. He feels his heart thud like a rock in his chest, knocking into Joe's ribcage as Pete's mouth grazes his sweetly. He mutters, "Joe."

"What was that?" Pete's eyebrows raised.

"Joe," comes the word again, firmer. Pete's smile sends a hot thrill through him. The arms around Joe's neck tighten, Pete leaning to speak into Joe's ear.

She -- he says, "Well, hey, listen, Joe. Here's what I'm about to do," and one of Pete's hands slides from Joe's shoulder, sneaking around to undo Joe's zipper as Pete continues. "I'm gonna stick my hand in your jeans, pull out your dick, get on my knees, and then blow you. You into that?"

"Don't let me hold you up," Joe says, mimicking Pete's sly smile. He gets Joe's pants opened as promised, and he looks up as he drops down to his knees, challenging Joe to watch it all. Taking Joe's cock in hand, Pete licks the along the side, down to the base and to the head again. As he averts his eyes finally, shutting them, Joe exhales and just thinks about how his knees are going to ache from pressing them into hard, cold tile.

Holding that thought proves difficult, especially when Joe sees the top of Pete's head, the way he sucks him down and pulls off again. Thanks to the hair brushing Pete's shoulders, he almost looks like some anonymous girl, all soft mouth and obscene moans. Joe can't handle the way it fucks with his perception, but he can't quit watching either. Pete braces one hand on Joe's leg and uses the other to cover what he can't get his mouth over, and Joe tries to warn him when he's close. He curls his shoulders inward, panting, and tries to say Pete's name, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp and then he's gone, coming in thick spurts, and Pete doesn't pull off.

Joe watches him take it with hooded eyes, helpless. Once he's spent, Pete stands and spits in the sink, leaving Joe slumped over and pathetic at the sight of Pete wiping his mouth. He makes a show of it, and then ducks in to get close to Joe's lips, hovering, and Joe kisses Pete. They're shallow connections, sad echoes of their best work until Joe tilts down Pete's chin, kissing him deeper and then shifting his weight into Pete's body, making them both lose their balance. Pete steps out of his shoes, and he clutches Joe's shirt as he topples back, bringing him crashing down on the kitchen floor as well.

"Motherfucking --" Pete hisses, and Joe laughs faintly, covering Pete's body. He shushes him, kissing Pete's jaw and his neck, like that soothes the ache from hitting the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Thanking you, I think," Joe says. This is his opportunity to show how grateful he feels, unsnapping Pete's suspenders and the button on his shorts, dragging down the clothes almost fluidly.

Pete lifts his hips, helping Joe along. He says, "You're gonna -- ah."

"Shh." Joe grits his teeth against Pete's waist, kisses teasingly before he really gets to it. There's something forbidden about then sucking the head of Pete's cock while he's like this, suspenders clicking on the floor. With the shorts around his knees, Pete moves less, cursing under his breath and trying hard not to buck up into Joe's mouth.

The needy groans Pete makes in his throat encourages Joe. He's not an expert here, barely knows what he's doing at all, but he tries to recreate what Pete gave him. He uses his hand, rubbing Pete's balls and then bringing it back to the base of Pete's cock and stroking in tandem with his sucking. Pete seems pleased, legs tensing and twitching under Joe's hand, and Joe loves it. He fucking loves it, the controlled chaos of using enthusiasm to make up for skill. Pre-come on his tongue tastes bitter, new and curious, and Joe just goes with the musky scent of Pete's body, goes with this whole set up, throwing himself into it and then bringing Pete over with the twist of his hand as Pete coughs that he's almost there.

A yellow strip of fabric hits Joe's wrist, and he realizes a second later that it's the scarf Pete has had tied around his hair as a headband. Joe unrolls it and wipes Pete's skin gently, swiping the cloth over his thighs and stomach. The kitchen light is brighter than every other room in the house where they've done this so far, with the exception of the groggy quickie that morning. Joe looks at Pete, really looks at him -- the jut of his hip bones, the swell of his thigh and the shallow rise and fall of his chest and belly as he comes down, eyes shut and face tight.

Joe crawls up to meet him face-to-face again, tracing the ridge of Pete's collarbone with his thumb and kissing his throat. The wig on his head skews. Rubbing his head on the floor, now without the scarf to help secure it has shifted it on Pete's head, and Joe moves to push it away, but Pete stops him, hand around Joe's wrist like a cuff. 

"Just let me," he says. "Hold on, leave it."

"You alright?" Joe asks, touching the thumb of his other hand to the crinkles around Pete's eyes as he squeezes them shut. 

Pete nods, says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just. I'm feeling it."

Joe relents, bringing his hand away from Pete's hair and running both palms down his arms, the skin goosefleshed. Pete shivers, and Joe kisses his cheek, likes the way Pete's face gradually relaxes, and he waits with Pete for another minute before his need to have a hot shower overwhelms his desire to keep lying on the cold hard floor.

"I'm gonna go wash up," Joe says to Pete, who nods again to acknowledge that he's heard Joe. "You coming?"

"Maybe. In a minute," Pete says. "I'm kind of comfortable."

Joe snorts, laughs in a huff of air and pats Pete's side. "Don't fall asleep here."

"You can come carry me to bed if I do," Pete says.

"Yeah, right," Joe says, because Pete might be small, but Joe's not carrying him anywhere when he's nothing but sleeping, dead weight. "I'll just wake you up and make you walk."

"Where's your sense of romance? Courtesy for pretty ladies?" 

"Waking you up _is_ a courtesy. I _could_ let you sleep here," Joe says, laughing, and he stands up to dodge Pete's weak attempt at jostling Joe with his leg and swatting at him with his hand. 

;;

This is not how Joe expected his vacation to go. When he booked the round-trip plane ticket to Los Angeles, he didn't anticipate that rescuing a hoodie and helping Pete clear out his closets would lead here. Joe didn't predict the way something funny could become something intriguing, something enticing, but it's been a week, and Joe's had to change his perspective on what sort of feels like everything.

When Joe was eighteen, he'd let this kid blow him after a show they played near Milwaukee. The show had been mediocre, and the dude had just been someone he'd started conversation with and turned out to dig a lot. For convenience, the whole band was going back to Andy's parents' place to crash on the floor, and Joe invited the guy along to hang out. Whenever he thinks about it now, mentally retells it to himself, Joe likes to think that one thing led to another, but really they'd been talking about video games one minute and the next the dude was blowing Joe in the bathroom because he'd asked. It had been that simple, sort of a random encounter in his life, this guy asking if Joe was into it because he kind of wanted to do that for Joe. He had thought Joe was cute, and Joe had sputtered but agreed, leading the guy away from the front room where everyone else was and sneaking to the bathroom in the basement.

Joe can't remember the kid's name, just that it started with a C or T, and he kept tonguing the slit on Joe's head, which Joe didn't really like but the rest of it, wow. Everything else had been great. And as disorienting as that experience had been, sort of fantastic in its reality, it didn't compare to this vacation at all, not for a second.

Pete's got a way about him, Joe notices. There's a way he likes to do this, putting on outfits that make him look different and fit the part, but he skips some of the other details. On Thursday, Joe takes him from behind. Pete lifts one foot to a chair and bends forward with his hand on his desk. He isn't wearing underwear again, and Joe slicks them up and pushes in without too much hassle, and lets Pete bite his hand, reaching around to the front of him as his grunts get louder, Joe coming with the sweet mix of the sting on his hand and Pete's ass clenching around his cock.

It makes him ask Pete though, later, about his boundaries, his preferences. Joe asks, "Why no underwear?"

"What, like panties?" Pete asks, pushing his skirt down after Joe pulls out. "Do you want that?"

"I don't know," Joe says, because he isn't really sure. He's just kind of curious. "Maybe."

They try that, then, and Pete complains about how uncomfortable the g-string is. He doesn't like them, and Joe can't stop giggling anyway, so Joe rips them, pulling and biting at the side until the fabric tears, Pete's hands folded neatly across his stomach while Joe has him lying on the bed. 

The boycut briefs work best, and Joe tells Pete that's because they're a lot like his regular underwear. Pete brushes that off, insisting that they're different, and Joe supposes he's right, sort of. They're like cotton hot shorts, and Pete wears them with the knee socks and a snug t-shirt. He gets on all fours on the bed, pushing his ass back and looking at Joe over his shoulder.

"You should snap a picture," he says, smirking. "Am I a fucking pin up or what?"

"What," Joe says, smacking Pete's ass, and Pete laughs then drops all mirth from his expression and consider Joe seriously.

He says, "Joe."

"Yeah?"

"How long before you try to fuck me?"

And that's a fair question, so Joe has Pete sit tall on his knees, back against Joe's front as Joe slides his hand over Pete's belly and into the underwear.

Joe asks about the makeup and other details too. That's even stranger, because part of it Joe's already used to seeing on Pete. He wears eyeliner, and sometimes he's painted his fingernails black, which is different in its way but still means Joe's seen Pete polish his nails. Watching Pete flatiron his hair is nothing new, but Pete does add lipstick one day, some bright red color that doesn't work at all, not even when Pete puts the wig back on and creates a whole look. Instead, Pete finds lipgloss in the same drawer where the lipstick had been hiding, and that works better, sticky and only tinted with a little color, leaving smears on Joe's neck and cock, and Joe scrapes his finger along Pete's cheek while he blows him, fake hair falling around his face like in every other piece of porn Joe's ever seen.

He gets that private, dirty feeling again, and his heart races and eyes feel like they blackout for just a moment when he comes, splashing the seam of Pete's lips. 

They experiment in small doses, spending hours preoccupied with feeling out each other, even when Pete seems to already have certain habits he prefers. Joe's along for the ride, eager when Pete wakes him up from a nap with a blowjob or when he's trying on something else, the slope of his back, smooth and inviting, and it's easy to reach out because Pete always gives in to the sweep of Joe's hand.

There's a disconnect as well, Joe notices. Sexually explicit indoors, but whenever they leave the house it's just the two of them, Joe and Pete, and they talk about their music, the people they know, and everything outside the bubble they build in Pete's house.

Joe checks his email for the first time in days Saturday morning. His inbox boasts emails from his parents and Marie, and Joe spends an hour writing to everyone that he's doing well, just relaxing. Los Angeles is warmer than everywhere else as usual. He's soaking up the sun and the atmosphere with Pete. For good measure, Joe calls his parents even after he sends them replies, promising his mother that he is coming back in the middle of the week still. No, he won't extend his stay just to squeeze in more time to try to surf.

As he's wrapping up his conversation, writing down the address for a family friend his mom wants him to visit, Pete comes into the room on a call of his own. He's pressing his cell to his ear, talking loudly, and patting out an erratic rhythm on his thigh. Joe scans his eyes across Pete, his own cell tucked between his ear and shoulder as he writes. Pete ends his call before Joe, standing a few feet away and waiting patiently until Joe says goodbye and closes his phone.

"She wants me to play good son," Joe says, setting the cell atop the paper on the desk.

Pete holds up his own phone, saying, "Ashlee still wants me to come to her party."

"Maybe you should," Joe says. "Are you going to?"

Pete shakes his head. "I seriously doubt it."

"Why? You can't find a date?" Joe stands, moving to Pete and punching him in the arm without any real pressure behind the blow. "You want me to be your date, so you can show everybody that you will survive?"

"Yeah, right." Pete laughs, ducking away from Joe and pushing aside some of the stuff on his desk, to half-sit on the edge. "No, I have other stuff to do. Like that stuff by the door up front and taking over my couches, dude. Let's get all of that out before it just ends up in my garage or back in closets."

They stuff the trunk and rear seats of Pete's SUV with the bags, and Pete tosses the car keys to Joe, making him the master of the road before he has time to protest. Not that Joe really minds driving. He's done a lot more riding this past week, so he's kind of happy about getting behind the wheel. Also, Joe is just a better driver than Pete is, and he spends a little less time wondering if they're going to hit the cars in front of them.

After they unload all of the stuff at Goodwill, they find a diner to grab lunch. Pete steals Joe's hoodie from the car and wears it, saying that he's chilly, and Joe snorts and calls him a baby. The hoodie's too big for Pete, bigger than the one's Pete usually wears, baggy in the arms and hanging a little low on him thanks to years wearing out the elastic at the waist. Joe pokes at the hole in the neck, wriggling his finger through to mess with Pete, and Pete fends Joe off, laughing, and pulls up the hood on the sweatshirt.

A lazy afternoon is fine by Joe. He's had several days of lazy afternoon, the sun hidden behind the clouds, and after lunch, they cruise, taking the longest way back to Pete's neighborhood. Pete curls his legs up, resting his feet on the dashboard and tapping his cell against his knee. He mutes the sound when it rings, glancing at the display screen but ignoring the call in favor of changing the radio station instead.

"It's not like I don't want to be friends," he says, not quite apropos of nothing, but Joe still isn't ready when he breaks into speech. "I'm just -- why do you want me to go to your party, you know?"

"Being actual friends takes effort," Joe says. He changes lanes and gets as far left as he can.

Pete jams his head back into the seat, raising off the leather and then flopping down. He says, "Yeah, sometimes I wish it was more theoretical."

"Are you pissed at her?"

Pete scratches his chin, swiping his hand down his neck and to his lap. "No, not really. I was a lot more bitter at first, but now I think I'm like. I'm kind of just over it."

"Mm," Joe says. It's a supportive noise. He's being supportive. "Hey, do you think Patrick's home? He wanted to hook up again."

"I don't know," Pete says, dropping his legs down to the floor of the car again and sitting higher in his seat. "Let's call him."

Patrick isn't home. Or if he is home and at all free, he's not answering his phone, so Pete and Joe can't find out for sure anyway. Heading to Pete's place is the best option, Joe tempted to ask him if he wants to stop at Ashlee's one more time but not wanting to annoy him. It might not be a bad party, Joe thinks, although he's equally content to pull up in Pete's driveway, another evening of just the two of them ahead. 

Eighties movies become their primary agenda. They watch a bunch of terrible (and awesome) films in Pete's room, Pete's feet in Joe's lap as he stretches out on the bed, Joe leaning against the headboard and slouching down. They start off with John Hughes classics, move into dances flicks like _Breakin'_ and half of _Footloose_. Twenty minutes into _Howard the Duck_ , Joe's eyes start dropping despite his best efforts. 

He excuses himself, slipping from under Pete and dragging himself to the guest bed. He hadn't bothered making the bed neat when he woke that morning, so he has no qualms about throwing himself in it with all his clothes on. Getting around to stripping down at least somewhat takes ten minutes because Joe dozes off that long in between falling into bed and thinking he needs to shuck off his pants. He doesn't remove his shirt, just spreads out in his underwear and socks, rolling to switch off the lamp by the bed and then passing out in the dark.

Joe's dreaming about sledding down the stairs on a boogie board at his parents house when he's jolted awake, head popping up, but it's Pete, just Pete. He's sliding his hand over Joe's thigh and pulling out his dick through the opening at the front of his boxers.

"Dude," Joe says. He'd nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Surprise," Pete says. Joe can barely make out the shape of his smile in the darkness as his eyes adjust. "Did I scare you?"

Joe sighs, dropping his head back, thighs twitching at the tightness of Pete's fist around him. Pete takes his hand away, and when it returns, he has lube in his palm, making Joe buck involuntarily, seeking more of the wet heat. Joe groans, and Pete chuckles, flicking his thumb over the head.

"Ah," Joe hisses clutching Pete's forearm, and Pete takes that as his cue to straddle Joe, the skirt he's wearing tonight longer and fanning out on his legs. "Wait -- don't you --"

"I'm ready," Pete assures him. "I got myself ready."

That kills Joe, lying back and imagining Pete with his fingers inside himself in anticipation of Joe in another room. He thinks about it as Pete sinks down onto him, and Joe's hard and aching, the heat of it shooting through him like a fission from his gut to his head.

"God, you're tight," Joe breathes. He's felt it a few times now, but he's still struck by the way Pete feels, and he jerks his hips forward, making Joe gasp.

They fuck hard and fast. The slap of their skin sounds loud to Joe, Pete asking, demanding more. Joe thrusts into him with abandon, Pete's legs clenching around Joe's side, and as soon as Joe reaches to creep his hand under Pete's clothes, touching his cock, he comes almost instantly, falling forward on his hands.

"Do you want me to pull out?" Joe asks, slowing his hips, waiting.

Pete shakes his head, grunts no, and squeezes around Joe. "Keep going, come on."

And Joe does what he asks, letting up on his earlier rhythm enough that Pete can ride it out. Pete digs his fingers into Joe's side, playing on the edge of painful and Joe curses and gives a final thrust, coming with Pete staring down at his face. Pulling Pete down isn't something he analyzes too much, just does, kissing him hard and then guiding him to the side, dick slipping out as he changes their position but keeps Pete's leg hitched over his own.

"What was that for?" Joe asks.

"Just because," Pete says, whispers, and he scoots closer an inch. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," Joe says, bracing Pete's back with his hand.

Pete smiles against Joe's mouth. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

;;

Pete's already up and about when Joe topples out of bed the next afternoon. Joe knuckles the sleep from his eyes and finds Pete washing his face in his own master bathroom.

"Morning," Pete says, pausing when he notices Joe. He's got a soapy washcloth, scrubbing at his face, and as Pete shuts his eyes to swipe the soap over the lids, Joe smiles.

"Hey."

"Sleep well?" Pete asks, rinsing and wringing his washrag. He sets it aside while he cups water in his hand and dunks his face that way.

"Yep," Joe says, and then belatedly, "Thanks."

"You're about to get so excited," Pete says once his face is clean. He reaches out to grab the dry towel next to his washcloth. "You know how you were complaining about me feeding you meals in addition to sharing all my awesome space? Well, guess who made pancakes?"

"Is your kitchen still intact?"

"Hey," Pete says, jabbing a finger at Joe's chest. "Fuck you, I can cook. Trust me, dude. Fluffy pancakes, even better than Patrick's own Bisquick creations."

Joe says, "I'll believe it when I see it," grabbing Pete's hand and pushing it down, away from where it can do more damage to his torso.

"Well, then, get ready to have your mind blown, because --"

His words are smashed against Joe's lips, muffled and lost. Pete hums into it, hand still in Joe's, and he opens his mouth a little. He still tastes minty fresh, which is awkward and kind of gross, actually, but Joe goes with it. He touches Pete's shoulder, slides it along the curve of Pete's neck, and then almost accidentally bites Pete's lip as he's pushed back.

Joe stumbles. His brain is slow to register what's happened, the foot of space suddenly put between Pete and himself. Wait.

"What's wrong?" Joe asks, frowning, and Pete looks almost equally confused.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, saying, "I, um," and he shakes it off. "Sorry, I think you just caught me off guard."

"Oh," Joe says. "Dude, it's not even dark."

The faucet's still running, and Pete twists the knob, stopping the water. He chuckles a little, hanging up the dry towel and the wet rag. He says, "Yeah, I don't -- whatever, forget it. Let's go eat."

Pete hadn't been lying about the breakfast waiting, and he even pours Joe both a glass of milk and orange juice to wash down the food while he eats. He insists that healthy dudes like themselves need all the vitamins and minerals they can get, and Joe laughs through Pete's entire speech about eating to live.

"You're a mess," Joe says.

"I was watching the food network earlier," Pete says. "Some lady was talking about it while she showed everybody how to make New York Cheesecake pancakes like at IHOP."

"Then how come these are plain?"

"Small steps, ingrate. I'm a beginner here," Pete says. He prepares himself a plate and picks out a spot at his dining table as well. "So what are we doing today? Who does your mom want you to visit?"

Joe's mom wants him to visit some lady that lives all the way in Azusa or something. She was a family friend who attended his first birthday party a million years ago, who Joe doesn't even remember, obviously, because he was a pip-squeak baby blob. But based on a technicality, Joe has to oblige his mom. It's like an unspoken but entirely binding contract that he has to do these kind of things for his mom, so she won't hit him over the head and refuse to share chocolate coins with him during the holidays because fame's gone to his head.

That fails to change the fact that Joe is looking forward to riding out to Azusa exactly zero percent. It's almost an hour cruise, though, and Pete is at least pumped to spend that time listening to the radio and yelling the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson out of his window. He makes Joe drive again, and Joe tries his best to shoot Pete skeptical looks, but Pete just says she's always in the top ten and yells along as the chorus starts into its second round.

Visiting his mom's friend -- Linda -- isn't all that bad once he's there. She mostly pats at Joe's arms and marvels at how much he's grown like that sort of thing doesn't happen naturally for everyone. She talks about her family, and Pete compliments her house approximately eight hundred times (Joe tries to count), which charms her. They're out the place within the hour and even manage to earn a plate of pretty awesome brownies from the deal as well.

On the way back to Los Angeles, Pete sings along with every song on the evening top ten, turning the station when one of their own singles plays. After a brief and painful interlude where Joe pretends like listening to soft rock doesn't hurt his heart while Pete laughs, they cut back to the Top 40 playlist in the middle of a Beyonce single. Pete knows all the lyrics to that one too, and he and Joe both have the Jay-Z verse down pat.

Joe's glances are warmer then, goofily pleased with himself and with Pete, and he wonders what that means. He flies back home to Chicago the day after tomorrow, and he hasn't taken any time to assess the real weight of the last few days. They've been moving too fast for Joe to call a time out, and it's nobody's fault, but their lives aren't perfectly contained weeks spent in isolation. There's the band, there's the fact that Pete has been Joe's friend for years, and there's. There's a lot. 

"How do you feel about buying a bunch of junk food and vegging out again?" Pete asks, raising his voice over the wind and the music.

"I'm not opposed to it," Joe says. Pete taps the emergency break between them like that finalizes that plan, and so Joe makes sure to detour to the nearest Vons before they get to Pete's street. 

In the house, he dozes off long before Joe gets tired, but instead of sticking it out until the credits roll, Joe just cuts the movie short. He puts the DVD back in its box, sits it on top of the DVD player, and then crouches down beside Pete lying out. His legs have uncurled, stretched across the full expanse of the lounger, and Joe cranes in close.

"I'm not carrying you to your room," he whispers, and Pete stirs.

"Hm?" he asks, without opening his eyes much at all. "Dude, could you grab me a blanket or something? I'm freezing all of a sudden."

Joe smirks, laughing softly to himself as Pete resettles. He leans in a brushes a kiss to Pete's face, and Pete jerks his head to the side sleepily, muttering. "Mn -- Joe. I'm beauty resting."

"Yeah, yeah," Joe says. He fetches the blanket from Pete's bed and tosses it over Pete's body, then heads to the guest bedroom and relaxes, listening to music until he gets tired.

;;

Joe finds an apology text from Patrick the next day, saying that he's sorry for missing them two nights before, but if they want then Joe and Pete are welcome to come waste time with him that night. It isn't like Joe is going to turn down the invitation. He has an early flight the following morning, and Patrick had insisted the three of them get to meet up before that happens.

He goes downstairs to let Pete know, scratching his hair, but the huge comforter is missing from the TV room and so is Pete. Joe doubles back to Pete's room, but the bed's made, the room empty. Wherever Pete might be, it clearly isn't in his own house. He hasn't left any more breakfast for Joe in the kitchen either, so Joe shrugs and takes a shower.

Pete's returned when he's finished, dried off and tugging a shirt over his head as he heads to the kitchen. He's bent over Hemingway's bowl, giving him more food, and it makes sense that he wasn't around earlier.

"Yo," Joe says, watching Pete try to fend Hemingway off so that he can get the food into the bowl first, and he growls at Hemingway when he persists. Hemingway barks, and Pete laughs at him, running a hand over the dog's head as he gives up and lets Hemingway claim his spoils.

"Hey," Pete says, beaming at Joe. "You're alive. Man, it's almost two. I was about to go in there and use the defibrillator on you myself."

"You just happen to have one handy?" Joe asks.

Pete shoots Joe a look like he can't believe Joe would doubt him. He says, "Christmas gift from Andy last year, true story."

"Lies."

"Yeah, it is. I kind of want one now though. How much would one of those run me, do you think?" he asks, eyebrows knitted together in serious consideration. 

Not one to be deterred by some of Pete's more random topics of conversation, Joe says, "Wow, a couple grand at least. I mean, think about it. It's supposed to jumpstart your heart."

"That sounds like a bad pop song," Pete says.

Joe agrees. "I bet a song like that exists already."

"Probably," Pete says, and he spends the next twenty minutes trying to come up with tacky couplets to have Patrick set to music. Might just be their next number one, he insists, and Joe shakes his head but sings along with the haphazard chorus until Pete can't breathe, he's laughing so hard.

"Speaking of Patrick," Joe says as soon as he's sure Pete's not going to pass out due to lacking oxygen. He tells Pete about Patrick's message, and Pete's all for bothering Patrick almost always.

They have time to kill before showing up at Patrick's apartment, and Joe makes them some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on toasted bread. It eats about thirty minutes with preparation and very slow chewing, and Pete tries to recite the alphabet with a mouth full of peanut butter. That part's mostly disgusting, but it helps pass a couple minutes too.

Pete wants to hop under some hot water before they leave the house, commenting that Joe smells fresh and he's kind of envious. While he's in the shower, Joe goes to pick through his luggage to see if he has any clean clothes left for his trip tomorrow. He probably should've taken time to dump his stuff in the wash before now, but whatever. He's only got to find something semi-clean to sit around in during his flight. He can continue procrastinating and tend to real life necessities like clean laundry when he lands in Chicago. 

They're supposed to be getting themselves together to leave the house, which is why Joe is mildly surprised when Pete says his name. Pete's supposed to be taking a shower, but when Joe glances behind himself, Pete's standing in a different pair of shorts than before, black leggings underneath. He's got on a plain white t-shirt, and a big red scarf draped around his neck. Complete with a fedora and black sunglasses way too big for his face, slipping low on his nose, Pete could play the part of any pseudo-bohemian girl in this city. He's wearing the boots from the first night, which almost come up to his knees. Joe had been about to ask why Pete wasn't busy washing up, but this is a valid alternative.

He makes his way to where Joe kneels, peering down at him behind unreadable shades. Joe drags his hand along the inside of Pete's leg, pausing at the hem of his shorts and poking his fingers underneath only until his nails disappear. 

He says, "This is too many layers for me to make it quick."

Pete smiles. "Then take your time."

The way breath punches from Pete when Joe shoves him on the bed thrills him, Pete bringing his arms over his head and automatically hooking his legs around Joe's waist. Limbs lithe, Joe traps Pete's wrist with his hands and bumps their hips together roughly. Joe sets the pace fast at first, gradually slowing, and he grits his teeth against the pain of Pete biting his skin when Pete turns his face into Joe's arm.

"How bad do you want me?" Pete asks, strained and airy against Joe's forearm.

"Pete -- "

"The worst?" Pete says. "Tell me."

"Yes," Joe confesses, grinding down. "That bad. I want you that bad."

Getting their clothes off is a chore like this, keyed up and frenetic. Joe has the patience to get Pete's shorts off after unzipping the boots so Pete is able to kick out of them with much effort. He has Pete flip onto his stomach, pushing back onto the bed with the leggings just barely shoved down around Pete's thighs, and Joe fucks Pete while he's even still wearing his hat, the glasses knocked aside in their haste.

They have an abundance of time, but this is perfect. Hurried enough to keep their blood racing, Pete grunts at the hard thrust of Joe's cock, and Joe's sweating when he comes, hands braced on Pete's hips, desperate and elated.

"Fuck," Pete says, "Fuck, please," and he shoves his ass back into Joe, still not there. Joe stays inside of Pete while he jerks him off, clenching his eyes shut to stick out the pressure around his sensitive cock. Joe sighs when Pete comes. He drops his forehead to Pete's spine, inhaling so deeply that it almost aches and exhaling damply across the back of Pete's shirt.

They both need fresh showers afterwards, and by the time they're dressed and ready to go for real, they ride the ten minutes to Patrick's apartment, no longer early. Joe tries to focus on the conversation while they're there. He tries not to watch the careless way Pete drops his head back as he laughs in front of Patrick's television or note the arch of Pete's back when he drops a fork on the floor as they and curls down to grab it. He tries, but it takes tremendous effort on Joe's part, mind stuck still stuck on the way Pete had said his name, voice twisting higher on the extended single syllable. He's dumbstruck by the contrast between that and the way Pete can elbow him in the side here, brutal and joking. He's loud and brash when he laughs, the guy Joe knows for breaking shit and causing trouble, and it's only been a few days, but the private version of Pete has already become sticky in Joe's mind, clinging to his senses.

"Control to Trohman. Hey! Space cadet," Pete says, waving his hand in front of Joe's face, and Joe zones back into their game. Pete asks if he's serious about playing Taboo or what? Patrick and Elisa laugh, good-natured, as Joe rattles himself of his daze completely, zeroing in on the task at hand.

Everyone loses momentum and fails to focus once the alcohol comes out. Pete pours glasses for Patrick, Elisa, and Joe, and then keeps the rest of the first bottle for himself. They lose his attention for good first, because Pete can talk big crap, but he's still a lightweight when it comes down to it. He giggles more, his braying laugh smaller and prone to shorter, brighter bursts when he's tipsy. It's amusing until he winds up on the floor, legs splayed awkwardly as he sings the same songs he and Joe had been listening to on the radio during the day trip toward San Bernadino.

"I think somebody needs to be put to bed," Joe says, helping Pete. He isn't wasted, just loose, more prone to hovering close and even less inclined to watch his mouth. He throws his arm over Joe's shoulder when Joe helps him stand, hanging off of Joe, heavy but not uncomfortable, and when Joe reminds Pete that he has no intention of dragging him, he drops back quick.

"Yeah, no," he says. He squeezes his eyes shut and pops them wide again. "No, you don't have to like --"

"You okay?" Joe asks, mildly amused.

Pete looks back to Joe. "No, yeah. Yeah, just. You know."

"You got him to shut up, wow," Patrick says, clapping Pete on the shoulder. Pete grins again as he turns his head, shifts his affections, and Patrick indulges his need to smack a sloppy kiss on Patrick's cheek with his girlfriend standing right there. Of course, that probably has nothing to do with the wine or anything else. That's just Pete.

"Yeah, love you too," Patrick says, and Pete grins at him patting Patrick's cheek where he's just left his kiss. To Joe, Patrick asks, "What time is your plane in the morning?"

"Eight," Joe says, checking his watch. They really should get back to Pete's.

Saying goodbye, Patrick promises he'll call when he gets back to Chicago. Joe hustles Pete out to the car, steering him by the shoulders. He digs the keys from Pete's jacket pocket and drives them away from the lights of the main streets, into the hills. Pete leans his head against the window, humming tunelessly, and he quiets as they pull into the driveway, hopping out of the car before Joe's completely parked. 

Pete doesn't have his house keys, so he leans again the wall just beside the door, tapping his foot, hands tucked in the kangaroo pouch of the hoodie he has on underneath his jacket. Joe turns off the car, double-checking that he hasn't left anything. Pete's neighborhood is very nearly always eerie in its silence, especially at night. The dull taps of Pete's foot echo.

"What happened to the singing, dude?" Joe asks as he gets to the door, handing over the keys. Pete unlocks the doors without much acknowledgment, and Joe assumes it must be some weird affect of his buzz wearing off. "Hurry up, it's cold out here at night. I'm ready to --"

Mid-sentence, Pete spins on his heel and raises onto his toes to kiss Joe, hard and unyielding. The door is cracked behind him, his hand on the knob and keys jingling where they hang from the lock. Joe kisses Pete back, tries to make it better, but there's just something ugly about how Pete gasps, breath ragged and broken before he stumbles back into the front door.

"Shit," he says.

"Hey --"

" _Shit_. Sorry." Pete throws the door open, hastily moving inside and then stopping as if he realizes he has no real destination.

Joe closes the front door, and then looks to Pete, lost. "Um. I'm feeling like I missed something."

Pete faces Joe, pushes his hood off of his head and scratching his fingers through his hair, nervous. He says, "I thought that I could try to, but I don't -- "

"What?" Joe asks. "You can't kiss me?"

"It's different," Pete says. He's jangling the house keys in his hand repeatedly. "In the bathroom yesterday, it surprised me. You kissed me, and I thought it was a fluke. Like, I could try it again, but -- fuck, Joe."

Pete is still hardly making sense, but the way he's tense and hunching slightly lets Joe know that this conversation probably isn't going to be full of things he wants to hear. He moves into the room more, away from the door, and Pete twists his ankle against the carpet.

Joe says, "Look, I need you to spit it out. I can't guess at what you're trying to tell me."

"I think it's too much for me," Pete says. "In the bathroom, and then right now on the porch. It's too much for me." 

"Compared to what? The rest of this you can handle?" Joe doesn't mean to be biting, but he's afraid his words might have that edge. This isn't what he needs right now. He doesn't want to be on this end of Pete's habits, fighting against the sinking knot in his chest that tells him Pete's about to pull everything apart before Joe gets a say.

Pete wipes his hand over his eyes and down the side of his face, a bundle of nervous ticks and restless limbs. He says, "See, this is what -- I'm sorry. I thought. This was supposed to be a game -- something fun."

"Oh -- no, no. Please don't do what I think you're about to. Not after the last two weeks here -- "

"That's different! It's one thing in somebody else's clothes and, I don't know." Pete looks more hysterical than Joe's ever seen him. It might be worse than the few times they've come to blows, trying to outdo one another and get the upper hand, and neither one of them has even made a move to touch the other yet. "But this. Right now, this is you and me, and that's a lot. Fuck, I sound like an asshole, but I thought I could just let one thing slide into the other, and it doesn't work like that for me."

"So, you're. You're saying, what, we can have sex when you're wearing your ex-girlfriend's stuff? But that's it," Joe asks, pawing needlessly at the fabric of his pants just to give his hand something to do. "That's all this is for you."

"You make it sound fucked up -- "

"Because it _is_ ," Joe says, not deliberately unkind but honest. He feels used. "I mean, is this about me at all for you, because I gotta say, I'm not seeing the part where you gave a shit about how any of this might've affected me."

"Like I'm alone?" Pete spits back, angry and defensive. "Who're you fucking in there? Because, guess what, I'm not actually some girl, dude. You're not fucking your girl overseas."

"Stop it."

"Get off my back about letting shit go. If I'm working through fucked up shit, then I'm not the only one."

Joe shakes his head. "No, I was with you. The first night, and through this whole -- whatever. Whatever this is, I've been with you, fucking you, _Pete_ , but maybe I'm the only one with the balls to admit that."

Pete deflates, loosening the barricade he's made with his arms. He shrugs, and to Joe, he only looks worn out. He looks like a guy who's had one too many, and Joe wishes they'd have waited to have this conversation. Pete says, "I was serious when I said I didn't have a bunch of experience with this. I told you that. I'm just -- it was something that felt good. I liked it, so I wanted to keep doing it, but. That's as far as it goes with me."

"I thought you said I wasn't your first," Joe says.

"Right, yeah." Pete tries to smile, still trying to keep things smooth, but the set of his mouth looks strained. He says, "That one probably could have gone better too."

"That sucks, Pete," Joe says, not seeing any humor in it. "You didn't think about this at the beginning?"

Pete shrugs. "I don't know. I'm trying not to mess this up, dude, but that ship's sailed already. I wish I could tell you different. I wish so fucking much that I could."

There it is, Joe thinks. Thrown on the floor and left broken, and the thing is that he knows Pete's being sincere. Joe hasn't even taken much time try to think about how far he might have wanted this to go, but Pete's already laying out his terms, and Joe can get his own opinions together enough to know that he's not satisfied.

He says, resolute, "I don't think that's enough for me."

"I'm sorry," Pete says, everything and nothing, but he doesn't seem surprised by Joe's answer.

"Yeah," Joe says, and it amounts to about the same. 

"Look -- "

"I'd, um. I would rather not do this anymore tonight, actually," Joe says, swallowing. He really just wants to go to bed.

Pete opens his mouth as if he's about to protest, but nods, resigning. "Alright."

"Yeah," Joe says. There's no graceful way to remove himself from this exchange. He lifts his hand, waving lamely and just goes, saying goodnight.

;;

Joe sleeps fitfully, uncomfortable and preoccupied. When it's time for him to get going, he takes a quick shower, closes his luggage and considers taking a cab to the airport, but then Pete's alarm goes off. Joe watches a bunch of infomercials in the front until Pete comes out of his room, hiding in a hoodie and sunglasses even though the sun's still rising. He puts his shoes on by the door, and once he laces them tight, stands, and checks his pockets for everything he needs to run out of the house for a while.

As Joe powers off the television, Pete looks over and asks, quiet, "What time do you need to be there?"

"Like six-thirty at the latest," Joe says, glancing around the couch just in case anything has fallen. "We have time."

The ride to the airport in silence. Pete punching his way through all the stations pre-programmed on his system, browsing the different morning shows. He settles on a traffic report, the speaker droll but doing everyone on the road the favor of announcing that many of the freeways in the Los Angeles area are clear this morning. If Joe knows this city at all, that'll change by noon, but thankfully he'll be long gone before that happens.

LAX seems less hectic than usual so early in the day, Pete pulling up to the curbside drop-off area and putting the car in neutral. He lowers the volume on the radio, taps his palms on the steering wheel. Joe watches the steady bump of the repetition instead of looking at Pete's face.

"You should call me. You know, to let me know that you made it back or whatever," Pete says.

Joe looks out of the front window. "Yeah, of course."

"I meant what I said," Pete adds, hastily getting it in like he expects Joe to cut him short again. "About wanting to say different."

Joe needs to get inside. He has to check his bag, hustle through security, and make sure he doesn't miss his flight home. He has to call his mother when he gets home, visit his parents' house and check in with his brother. He has to pick his dog up, feed her, and probably clean the mess of stuff in his house Joe left lying around from his initial tour dump. He has about a hundred other things he should focus his attention on rather than sitting outside of LAX with Pete, wondering how to say goodbye because nothing worked out, and afraid that the fact that it matters at all proves Joe's affected.

"I know," Joe says, "but that isn't the case, so," and it feels inadequate, but he's got a plane to catch. He gets out of the car, and raising his voice to be heard through the window, Joe promises that, "I'll let you know when I land."

He grabs his bag, walks into the sliding doors, and that's it. That's how it adds up. On the airplane, Joe puts in his earphones, volume high, and thinks about why he likes Los Angeles.

;;

The second and third days home after being elsewhere are always more difficult for Joe to wrap his head around than the first night. Initially, he's just glad to see his bed again. Night one back in Chicago means being more comfortable than any hotel or anybody's guest room could make him. He sleeps hard and for much longer than he needs, relishing the space to stretch out and the familiarity of his bedroom. The second night is as welcome as the first, but it feels strange, being back.

His phone doesn't ring.


End file.
